Of Cabbages and Kings
by Mlle Passpartout
Summary: Unseen glimpses into Belle's life at the castle with Rumpelstiltksin, from Belle's POV.  Mostly a series of one-shot style chronological pieces with some connecting chapters interspersed.
1. Catch My Death

**A/N: **This is my first piece of fanfiction in years (like... 8 years), so if you feel so inclined, please do comment and critique! I hope you all enjoy, and obviously, I do not own OUaT, for if I did, we would not have to wait so long for particular story lines to be resolved. :)

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><p>Belle had gotten used to her routine in the castle over the past several weeks – crude tallies on the dungeon wall signaled it had been 27 days since she saw her father and Gaston for the last time. In all honestly, it felt entirely like a lifetime – even if it was not a completely terrible change. Not worrying about staving off Gaston's advances was certainly a burden she did not miss…<p>

And rather than the persistent threat of war and destruction, she was pushed into the constant pursuit of dust and grime, which created an entirely new ritual for the young woman. She would rise with the sun – sometimes before it, preparing breakfast and tea, clean sections of the estate – it had to be compartmentalized over several days or she would never finish, prepare an afternoon meal, attend to the collection (which seemed to be his most important task for her), and whatever other tasks he prescribed to her before she was to prepare supper and evening tea. It was only after all of this was over, that she could take some leisure with a book, and even then, she was usually in the company of Rumpelstiltskin, anyway.

Though he had been unrelenting at first, keeping her up with him, demanding this or that for his spinning, as the weeks wore on, he seemed to ease on her, perhaps pleased at her work, or finally realized she would nod off while dusting, and let her take leave of her post by the strike of ten or eleven in the evening, depending on his generosity (it was almost always nearer to eleven).

So, after her evening bath, when she was laying on her straw mattress, a blanket and cloak wrapped around her to keep out the chill, she would usually fall straight into sleep – it did not even matter that she had once been conditioned to sleep on feather soft mattresses, now she could fall asleep anywhere… But, on those nights that she couldn't sleep, particularly in the beginning, she thought she heard horses on cobbles through the small window, and voices speaking in hushed whispers, but on the nights she wasn't too tired to pick her body up from the straw mattress, she would peer through her tiny windows only to be looking out at nothing. Not even a deer, straying from the wood.

It was so peculiar, but this whole place was, undoubtedly, peculiar. Even after a month, there was so much magic – and it didn't just… fade into the background, like a scent. It pretended to, but there were moments every day where it prickled at her skin, and teased the spot right where her neck met her back, sending shivers down her spine when she least expected it. It never seemed to bother Rumpelstiltskin. And neither did the persistent draft.

While she tried her best to not complain, Belle made her protest a bit more visual – hoping that the humor in it would subdue a tantrum and bypass conflict. Though she was not afraid of him, she certainly wasn't going to start a fight. So, in the absence of anything else, she wore her travel cloak turned blanket over her simple dress while she dusted the interior of the cabinet, hood drawn up and folds drawn tight around her.

She heard footsteps behind her – the only ones she got used to, and could only hear after these few months – before, it was as though he was a stealthy as a cat. "Going somewhere?" his voice lilted, and though he tried to sound humorous, she could sense hardness in it.

Turning to look over her shoulder, she raised her hand to pull back the fold of fabric, not even concealing her smirk, "The library." A simple enough reply, she thought, and started to turn back toward the cabinet.

Before she had the chance to get all the way around, it was like he had been standing next to her the whole time. She was used to his tricks, of course, but the sneaking… it always made her jump, just a little bit. And he smirked, brown-gold eyes dancing with mirth, "A bit… overdressed, aren't we, Dearie?" he quirked an eyebrow, his hands drawn close to his chest, but one pointer finger motioning up and down the length of her body.

"Oh? This?" she asked, just barely swishing the cloak from side to side, "I didn't want to catch my death in this drafty old room," almost casually enough to be offhand, and she tried not to look at him as she said so, but her eyes flicked to the side anyway, she could not help herself – and she realized his expression changed abruptly. She had missed something.

"What a shame that would be," he mused, returning to that devious tone he seemed to like so much, "How my estate would suffer!" She rolled her eyes, trying to diffuse a bubble of laughter that threatened to spill out, and continued her dusting – unperturbed by his attitude, and the way he just walked away without another word. She heard the familiar creek of the stool by the spinning wheel and then the quiet, methodical turning – just as it always was until she finished the cabinet and departed for the library.

As far as she was aware, Rumpelstiltskin remained spinning while she was busy at work, and only ceased for the brief period they took tea together after supper, where he always insisted on using that ridiculous, chipped cup. She had voiced her concern, that he might cut himself, but he would just smile – never answered her query, but continued on, using that cup.

Sometimes, she was convinced he did it just to vex her. She'd be lying if she said it did not work. But, he was the master, and such indulgences were his choices, not hers. She was still wearing the cloak, though took the hood off, and curled up in one of the chairs, feeling as though she could disappear within not only the cloak, but the cushions, at any second. He sat at his usual seat, looking contemplative.

There was never a moment where he looked like he thought of nothing, and Belle, however hard she tried not to decipher his expression, could not keep silent on the matter anymore. "What are you thinking about?"

He looked up from the rim of the tea cup and grinned; "Of shoes-and ships-and sealing-wax- Of cabbages-and kings…" he trailed off waving his free hand, still laughing at himself.

Belle smiled though, a cryptic little expression, while she lifted her head and rocked her shoulders just a little, proud of herself: "And why the sea is boiling hot- And whether pigs have wings?"

It almost looked like he was speechless, but Belle knew better, and watched as his lips picked up into a rueful smile. "You do remember what happens to the oysters, don't you?" He took on that feral look, giggling wildly over the edge of the teacup.

"Fortunately then, I am not a mollusk," she quipped quickly, taking a sip from her cup.

Rumpelstiltskin's shoulders shook and it looked, for a moment, like he might spit his tea right out – but he composed himself and did not say a word. Belle frowned, "Are you alright?"

"Quite," he coughed; his voice still shaky from nearly choking. He touched the small patch of exposed upper chest near his collar and cleared his throat again – it sounded so much deeper than his normal voice.

Shaking her head, Belle smiled and teased, "It would be a minor inconvenience were I to freeze to death, but for the master of the castle to choke on his tea? It would be a veritable tragedy." It was the master's turn to scoff and he did, so much like himself, and put the teacup on the saucer and the saucer on the tray.

"Clean this up," he waved his hand at the tray, unconcerned as to whether or not she had finished her share, and started to stride over to the spinning wheel, "and fetch me some fresh straw."

Belle sighed, pushing herself up from the chair – exceedingly careful to not break this teacup. She was such a clumsy thing sometimes, and couldn't bear to destroy any more of the valuables. One teacup, a plate, and two vases seemed enough for one vandal's career… But, she was fortuitous in her pursuit, having risen without assaulting the fragile china, and made her way across the room, cloak still swinging behind her.

As she crossed, she heard another huff from across the room and glanced over, "Did you really wear that all day?" he asked impatiently, the wheel spinning more quickly than his usual, steady pace.

Belle just smiled, "I did," she balanced the tray in her hands, not moving yet – for fear of losing concentration, "and I was very comfortable – so I might have to make it a habit." She heard the displeased clicks of his tongue and he shook his head, returning to that wheel as though she had said nothing, and waved one hand at her, the now recognized sign for 'hurry up, then!'

And she did. Though distant, reaching the kitchen only took a few moments, if one knew which turns to take, and Belle had learned them quickly, as it seemed the kitchen and she were to be constant companions. She emptied the tea pot, used what seemed to be the endless supply of warm water to clean the pot– there were times she was grateful for the magic – and then moved to the cups. She was careful, but even more so with the chipped one. Though she did not like it, Rumpelstiltskin had taken a liking to it, and she would hate to see his temper should she break it further…

These were routine things though, and she laid them out to the dry before stepping out into the storehouse, grabbing up the basket of hay she had prepared that morning, humming through the halls as she walked, greeted by the all too familiar, "That took you long enough."


	2. Easy to Keep

**A/N: ** I am so excited that so many people are following my story already - thanks to you guys, and hopefully, as we now get further into the story, not only will people continue to like it, but more will join in the fun. Thanks so much, I don't own OUaT, and if you're so inclined, please R&R!

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><p>The next morning Belle woke up in her room (it really did sound better than dungeon), with the sun streaming across her face. Despite the chill in the air and her cloak practically cocooned around her, the warmth of the light was comforting, and she inclined her head toward it, not wanting to move… but knowing she desperately had to.<p>

Rumpelstiltskin would be waiting for his breakfast, and his tea, even if he would only really pay attention to the tea, and she reluctantly pushed herself up, shivering in the cold morning air. Despite her heavy, winter nightgown and stockings, she was freezing. So, she tried to dress as quickly as possible – slipping on her long, but thin chemise, the embroidered shirt, her hip roll, her blue skirt with matching stay, lacing it up as quickly as possible.

It had gotten easier, as the days went on, to do, and she was thankful for it. When she lived with her father, she had a sea of lady's maids just waiting to scoop her up and have her ready in moments. Having to do it herself had, at first, been an arduous task… now it was just a minor inconvenience.

Breathing heavily, she hadn't realized how quickly she got ready until it was actually over. She grabbed her cloak off the floor and started to pull it against herself, anticipating the door would be opened for her at any moment… but when she finally took the time to look over, she realized it was already just barely cracked.

Furrowing her eyebrows, she pursed her lips and slowly inched forward. Usually, he would come let her out, presumably so she would not sneak out at night… but the door being open? She was so curious – [i]remember what happened to the oysters[/i] rang through her head…

But, she was not an oyster, and this was just her door. So, she pushed it open and blinked in surprise – a little package sitting on the floor, wrapped in crude paper and tied with simple twine. Belle looked up and down the hallway, seeing no one in sight. Slowly, she leaned down to pick up the parcel and turned it over in her hands before she started to slowly untie the wrap.

The twine fell to the floor, and she dropped the paper, her eyes going wide as she held the soft, slivery-white and delicate shawl in her hands. Her breath hitched in her throat as she held onto the edges, and the knitted fabric rolled down, revealing its whole form.

She gasped, overtaken with how beautiful it was – and the hints of gold interlocked with the beautiful fabric… Belle quickly leaned down to pick up the packaging and walked back into her room, placing them by her bed. She laid the shawl down carefully, like it would break in a thousand pieces were she to drop it, and her fingers worked quickly at the clasp on her cloak.

It could not be quick enough, she thought and put it down on the ground, retrieving the gold-laced silver shawl, and pulled it tightly around her shoulders. It did not look as though it would be warm, and feeling it against her hands, she thought it was light, but once she put it on, she felt instantly warm.

She almost felt a flush on her cheeks, but she suppressed the feeling, realizing how long she had already tarried. Her feet carried her quickly from her room to the kitchen and she immediately started the fire under the enclosed oven – letting it crackle and pop while she moved to prepare breakfast.

She retrieved the batter for the butter croissants she had started yesterday from cool storage. She put the bowl on the counter and then patiently rolled out the dough and cut it. She rolled each individual roll to perfection – glad she had an innate talent in the kitchen, or this would have been utterly impossible. When the fire was stoked, she placed the pan in the oven and sighed – the smell was almost immediately delectable. She loved the flakey dough, especially spread with jam, and for the first time - . Opening the pantry, she was happy to find apple preserves and put it on the tray with a knife.

She started to hum as her breakfast ritual was wrapping up, the croissants toasting and the kettle boiling over the fire. The tea ball was already set in the porcelain teacup, and when the kettle started to whistle, she used the thick holder to lift it and pour, careful to avoid burning herself again.

It was, perhaps, not the quickest breakfast, but it smelled delicious, and covering the fresh croissants with a handkerchief, she walked up the stairs, away from the impossibly cold basement toward the main hall, where he would be waiting.

When the doors swung open, Belle saw Rumpelstiltskin, sitting at the end of the table, though not the usual side facing the cabinet. He was very clearly facing the door with his fingers steeped and brow low. "You're late," he said flatly, darkness in his voice. Clearly, the master did not like waiting. She would have been more embarrassed were she not proud of the offering she brought.

"It was well worth it," she smiled, not betraying the nervousness that made her heart beat faster in her chest. He sniffed, disbelieving and Belle placed the breakfast tray on the table in front of him. She contained her smile as his eyebrows quirked, perhaps intrigued. She delicately lifted the handkerchief from the croissants and looked at him expectantly. He met her gaze, though looked puzzled – she could not reason why. "Are you displeased?" she asked, trying not to sound deflated.

He gingerly picked up a hot pastry, dropping it on a plate with a sour look. "Hot," he said simply, looking at her while she remained motionless, like he expected something. She opened her mouth to say something, but realized she hadn't continued to serve and dropped the hanky on the table with a little, "Oh!" of surprise before she picked up the teapot. Pouring into the two cups, she pretended she was not watching as he gingerly picked at the pastry. "What do you think?" she asked quietly, putting the chipped cup in front of him before serving herself.

"I think…" he paused, inclining his head to the side. Rumpelstiltskin seemed to gaze upward, into the corner for several tense moments before he looked at her and grinned, "I am glad you've decided to abandon the ridiculous cloak." She looked over at him, lips pursed, clearly not the answer she was looking for and shook her head. "Oh, you mean about these?" he made a grand motion to the pastries in front of him, "I suppose they are passable."

It was as close to a compliment as she might get from him, she reasonable and Belle suppressed her laugh with a discreet roll of her eyes. "Thank you," she said simply – knowingly, "for everything.

The master looked perplexed, and then amused, "Whatever do you mean, dearie? You must be very easy to please if a passing comment on passable pastry elicits such a response. How lucky for me, you are easy to keep." He laughed, taking a bite out of a croissant – the look on his face clearly suggesting he was enjoying it more than he let on, but that was his way. It was always about more than he let on.

Belle giggled quietly, daintily spreading jam on her own pastry, making the decision to not bring the shawl up. He had made his comment, seemed pleased, and that was that. If he chose not to take her thanks, that was fine – but she had given it. He was not the only one who knew more than he let on, after all.


	3. Without a Price

**A/N: **Thank you SOOOO much to all of my readers! I'm shocked and blessed that you are enjoying the story so much and I'm so glad that people are following it, commenting on it, and really making me happy about writing! I appreciate every comment and follow, so please, don't be afraid to message or anything - I'm truly grateful. Now, this chapter refers to a lot of early modern laundry... I am so thankful for a washing machine. Also, I don't own OUaT, in case you weren't aware ;)

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><p>Winter wore on, and the shawl accompanied her most every day, save for the tasks that would sully it – like cleaning the fire places or touching a previously untouched nook of some forgotten room in an abandoned corridor. She always made sure though, if she were in the main hall, sitting in an opulent chair with a book, or just dusting the cabinet, it was with her – cared for as one of her most prized possessions, one of her only possessions here.<p>

It was especially important to leave it in her 'room' while she was laundering the clothes -at least that's what she thought. It seemed like such a cumbersome task, particularly the care for the vast assortment of leathers that Rumpelstiltskin had accumulated over however long he had been wreaking havoc all over the kingdoms. She had no experience in such matters, and thus, waited until there was a pressing need for the task to actually attempt it.

So, her day's tasks strayed from the typical dusting and care of the estate, and most of her morning was spent carting baskets up and down the stairs with huffs. Even still, she was not used to such laborious tasks. But, after a few trips up and down, Belle was not only able to gather all of his washing, but her own, and dumped it all over the floor in the washroom, near the kitchen.

It seemed she spent endless hours in the basement, she thought with a sad sort of acceptance. She loved the sun and brightness, but the realm of the housekeeper was not all lightness and frivolity, she came to unfortunately understand. So, rubbed her hands together and started to work.

All of the cloth fabrics went into the warm water – which she hoped was right, and started to stir them around before using the long, wooden pole to remove each piece and dunk it into the cold water, cooling it enough to be run over the washing board. She huffed with exertion, the sweat on her back from the exertion, but the goosebumps on her arms from the chilled water. If her father heard her cursing the way she was, he might have mistaken her for some fishmonger's wife, but she could not help it. When she wasn't freezing, she was burning her hands – and they were rubbing raw.

Despite this, Belle did not abandon the herculean task. She reminded herself it was almost over, and it was part of her terms. Being of royal blood, she was imbibed with distinct value sets, and part of that was always meeting your terms on an agreement. A family was only as strong as its last treaty.

So, she boiled and scrubbed, then hanged to dry all over the wall and standing racks, sighing. They would not dry for days in this basement. But, she had no where else to wash, and doing it outside would be even worse – the wind was whipping a storm in, based on the sounds of the rattling windows. With the last of the cloth articles washed, she dropped into a chair, exhausted. Her dress was soaked; she was chilled to the bone, and could not believe how long that had taken. She felt a distinct pang of sympathy for the servants at home.

Her chin scraped her chest, her eyelids fluttering shut with a sigh. The muscles in her arms ached, her hands stung from the soap and the water, the endless scrubbing on the washboard and her knuckles were raw. She would never wait this long to do the laundering, she reasoned, and rubbed her tired eyes with her wrist. When she lifted her head, she realized with horror – the leathers!

It was sitting in front of the chair, waiting to be attended to as well. The corners of her eyes stung, but she refused to succumb to do the desire to cry. It was laundry, she reasoned with herself, not a dragon or a curse – just an inconvenience. She had gotten over so many of them before this, and would get over this one too… She leaned over and grabbed the first pair of pants from the top of the pile, sighing. She knew leather did not belong in a bath of water, but she paused to think of what to do next.

Looking around, she licked her lips and grabbed a cloth and what she assumed was the appropriate salve for washing leather – it smelled like leather, at least, and dipped the cloth in, to get a little on and started to rub at a foreign stain… It looked suspiciously red-brown, but Belle did not wish to consider the possibilities. She merely scrubbed, fighting the pain and praying to the Gods that this task would go by quickly, even as the cleaner got into her already rubbed raw hands, causing her to hiss in pain.

She pushed through though, and was glad that generally, most of the leather was not stained… By the end though, she was freezing and her hands were chapped. She felt awful. And she still had to prepare dinner. Glancing out the window, she sighed – the sun was just starting to retreat.

It took all of her strength to push herself out of the chair, and her arms felt like stone blocks hanging from her shoulders as she trudged toward the kitchen. It was a chore to assemble dinner, a labor unlike one she had ever felt before, but she did, even if it was not as fantastical as she had done before, but her hands were throbbing, holding things was pure torture.

Gripping the silver tray, Belle was gritting her teeth the entire way to the hall. Her dress was merely damp now, not nearly as soaked as it had been, and she shivered in the halls. She never thought she would be happier to see a doorway in her life. Balancing the suddenly exceptionally heavy tray on one arm, she pushed the door open – Rumpelstiltskin's chair was facing the door again. She bit her lip – he did that when she was late.

Of course, he opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to stop himself. Belle felt suddenly self-conscious. Even a master trickster (she could not bring herself to call him a liar, because as far as she had seen, he did not lie) like himself could not hide the expression on his face. "I'm afraid this is nothing like my croissants," she gave a weak smile.

She crossed the room as quickly as her body would carry her, not all that fast tonight, and the tray unceremoniously clattered onto the table. She flexed her hands, trying not to hiss, though she could not help it. Rumpelstiltskin pursed his lips, "Are you alright, Dearie?" he asked, his voice sounded somewhere between curiosity and concern.

Belle did not want to betray the pain she was feeling and shook her head. It was not time to be soft. "I'm fine," she fibbed – she would not call it a lie; she just didn't want to cause any trouble. She went to pick up the teapot to pour, being very ginger about the whole process.

Rumpelstiltskin did not even push himself up from the chair; it seemed he was up on his feet within seconds. He put his grey-gold hand on her wrist, pushing the teapot down. She flushed at the touch – having always imagined his skin to be cold – but finding it quite the contrary. The way he moved, she would have assumed he would be rough with her, but when she let go of the teapot, he gently turned her hand over, raising dark eyebrows as he looked at the raw patches and blisters all over her once soft hands. "This does not look fine to me."

Belle felt anxious twist in her stomach. "I did the washing," she finally admitted, slowly retracting her hand after he let it go. For some reason, her wrist was still warm from his touch.

"You're cold," he added, almost sounding soft. Belle gulped and bit the inside of her cheek – not sure if he meant that her skin was cold or she appeared cold. Either was entirely possible. She looked down, avoiding his gaze. He huffed slightly, letting his shoulders drop, "Go," he motioned, "near the fire. And take this," he swiftly lifted the teapot and poured into her cup, depositing two sugar cubes – she didn't even know he knew how she liked her tea, and handed it to her. He held up the cup to her and shooed her toward the fire.

She was a little stunned, to be honest, and took the teacup at his order, slowly making her way to the red, velveteen chair she liked above all others. Sinking into it made her realize just how much her body ached, crumpling against the weight of her arms and the soft embrace of the armchair. "Thank you," she murmured quietly, shivering as the warmth started to permeate her still damp dress.

He did not acknowledge her thanks, instead took his tea and ignored the food on the tray. It appeared he was not hungry. "You will not do the laundering again," he ordered, sounded angry, though he did not look at her. The way he looked down at his hands, the tightness in his jaw – his resolve was not targeting toward her. She gulped, just a bit and took a sip of tea, feeling the odd combination of chill with sweat on her neck. She coughed, his hawk eyes turned toward her – searching.

Belle was curled up in the chair, her hands shaking just slightly, even the teacup and saucer causing her discomfort. In a flash, Rumpelstiltskin was gone. He disappeared in a cloud of grey smoke, and Belle gulped. She hated the disappearing. Even more than that, she realized as she squeaked and spilled tea on her bodice, was the reappearing, right next to her. "Clumsy girl," he said – was that… softness in his voice? No, Belle told herself, he just regretted his housekeeper was going to be useless until her hands mended themselves. Though, when she looked at him, there was not disappointment in his face… she couldn't tell what was there… but it wasn't disappointment.

"Here," he held out a vial. In it looked like a creamy sort of substance, and Belle cautiously took it. In his other hand was a roll of what looked like bandages. He plucked the teacup out of her hand, unceremoniously, and gracefully knelt in front of her, down in one swift motion, placing the teacup on the floor. "Rub that between your palms," he inclined his head toward the vial.

Belle turned the vial toward the palm of her left hand. She fumbled slightly, when she realized how quickly the salve was coming out, and dropped the vial into her lap, smattering a splotch on her. She flushed, keeping her eyes down and toward her hands as she rubbed her hands together – the soothing sensation immediately cooling the hot, raw cuts and blisters.

He held out his hand to her, and Belle just placed her hand, palm up, into his. He didn't speak as he started to put the soft strips of fabric over the wounds. He was so precise, she thought as she watched his deft fingers move seamlessly over her hands, switching the roll from one to the other without a pause. He ripped the fabric and tied it off, waiting for her to present the other hand – and she did. The process repeated in silence, Belle's head still inclined, watching so carefully, and trying not to smile as she saw the very tip of his tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth – so concentrated.

When he was done, Belle looked at the mitts on her hands and smiled, "I suppose now that I'm useless you'll turn me out?" she tried to joke, but her laugh was tired, and she could feel how heavy the corners of her mouth were. Her eyelids and chin dipping before she lifted up quickly, startled.

Rumpelstiltskin smirked, "Ah, if only your escape were so easy!" he chided, "By morning you will be fit as a fiddle, dearie, and you will be able to return to your favorite of household chores." He looked over her – eyes raking just a little too slowly – she thought, for a moment and he let out an unexpectedly deep sigh, "But – this still will not do."

She shifted in the chair, confused by his comment. "What won't do?"

"Follow me," he said simply, and started to walk toward the door that led to the rest of the halls, leaving Belle to push herself up – much effort concentrated in this part of the day. It seemed like her whole day was spent exerting great effort for little reward. Belle hurried her pace to keep up with him as he waved his hand, sending the door flying open.

They were not walking down the stairs, toward the basements, however. He was leading her up – and he was going rather quickly – determination in every step. Belle was not able to match his stride as she got up to the top of the stairs, huffing a little – a cough escaping her, despite her best attempts to hold it in. His sharp eyes glanced over his shoulder toward her, and she cleared her throat – trying to cover it up.

They reached a door Belle recognized – a room she was used to cleaning, and with a wave of his hand, it was open, and he stepped out of the way, gesturing her in. Belle frowned, looking at him quizzically, "Did I forget to scrub the floors?" she asked, peering into the room, half expecting to find it riddled with dust and grime.

Instead, the richly decorated room – full of deep blues and comforting splashes of yellow was immaculate. Her cloak was draped over the chair by the blazing fire. Her nightgown and stockings were laid out on the bed. And she smiled – her shawl was neatly folded on the pillow. "What is the catch?" she asked, looking at Rumpelstiltskin. "I believe you were the one who told me nothing comes without a price."

He giggled, that strange sound that shook her to the core – he was wild, that giggle reminded her. "If only you were as graceful as you are clever, dearie," he poked fun at her – she tried not to blush. "But, the price… well, you'll see." His eyes twinkled, and for a moment, she almost considered saying she would go to the dungeon… but she was so tired, her body was aching so badly, and that fire… Suddenly, she felt as though she could sleep for a thousand years.

"A deal it is, then," she murmured, crossing the threshold. The door shut behind her, his laugh reverberating off of the walls and faded as he got further and further from the room. It wasn't the first time in her stay that she was truly surprised by the master. And as she climbed into the feather soft, stuffed bed, Belle realized, for the first time here, she was truly content, and her sleep was dreamless.


	4. After Three Lifetimes

**A/N: **Wow! The responses you all have had to my story have been so encouraging, I can barely wait to write more whenever I sit down. Thanks to all my readers and reviewers, I hope you like this next chapter!

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><p>She was vacillating between hot and cold so quickly. When she had woken up, she was wrapped so tightly in blankets she couldn't move either way, and fifteen minutes, she was free of the bedding and sweating. The fire continued to burn, and the sun came up, all the same, but Belle could not move from the bed. She was coughing, her lungs aching with every puff of air.<p>

Though she wanted to get out of bed, when she tried her knees were weak and head was light. Her hands were, fortunately, mended – and without mark – but even undoing the bandages was enough to exhaust the sickly young woman.

It was not an option though, and Belle pushed herself out of bed, lazily getting dressed – not nearly to the standards she might have on any other day, and felt so tired. Between the flashes of extreme hot and cold, the ache in her muscles from her previous day's extreme task, and the fullness of her chest, Belle could not believe how terribly she felt.

If servants felt like this, if she were ever able to return home, she would most certainly beg their forgiveness a thousand times over for having to do her washing and keep up with her demands. Never had she thought it would be quite so hard – while she struggled, as a young princess, to learn the rules of polite and proper conversation, she thought she would have rather done anything. Now, she would give the world to go back to elocution lessons.

There was so much to do and she couldn't risk not doing it – it would just accumulate and then be entirely impossible – rather than the manageable task she had made cleaning into, it'd go back to being an overwhelming, huge expanse of work to do and she wouldn't know where to start again – and it was sun-up… it was time to make breakfast.

As she descended the stairs, Belle felt her knees shaking and she gripped tight on the banister, labored breaths accompanying her as she went. She was so close to the bottom when – her head was swimming, her legs went weak, and Belle felt almost removed from herself – like she could watch herself falling down the stairs from some position above the stairs.

Her throat burned as her automatic reaction was to scream, and she felt each thump against the stairwell. She tried to protect her head, bringing her arms up, and whimpered as she finally lay still at the bottom of the staircase.

She was dizzy, everything seemed to be a haze, and she could feel herself moving, but couldn't register what was going on. It was like the fever suddenly became too much and her body just decided that it would not go any further, and that it certainly wasn't going to prepare breakfast.

The next time she woke up, Belle realized she was not on the hard floor. She felt warm, and comfortable. She turned her head slowly, trying to gauge where she was, and realized she was back in her room. Her blankets were pulled up around her, she still felt clammy and if she were to move her eyes too fast, she got a rush in her head. She stretched her arm, just a little above her head and heard a sound in the corner of the room.

Slowly, very slowly, she looked, and her eyes opened wide. "Rumpelstiltskin," she breathes, her throat burns with words, but she says it anyway. She was so surprised, and it appeared he was too, as he spun so quickly it nearly made her dizzy!

"Ah, you're awake, dearie," his voice was low, much more pleasing to her pulsating mind than the high pitched tone he took when he was trying to scare people. Sometimes, she thought his deep voice was more unsettling, and the way he slowly walked to the side of the bed, like a prowling cat, "you took a bit of a tumble," he explained, "And seem to be worse for wear."

Belle chuckled, but her chest tightened, halting her mid laugh. "Throwing me to the wolves?" she asked in a raspy voice, sighing deeply and shifting, uncomfortably warm. She pushed the blankets back and yawned – coughing again. Her eyes fluttered downward, realizing that her nightgown was on over her chemise. She did not know if the flush was from the heat or her embarrassment.

Rumpelstiltskin appeared to be unfazed by any of this, however, and stood near the fire, prodding it with a poker. She squinted, through bleary eyes, and could see a small pot in the hearth. "You might think that more pleasant," he mused quietly, stirring the contents – which, once Belle caught the scent made her grimace and moan.

He looked over his shoulder at her, something dark in his already dark features, turning into concern and a more vigorous stirring of that pot. "You'll have to drink all of it," he explained, "or the chill will not subside."

For a moment, she thought she heard him laugh, and Belle, in her fevered state, felt a sudden rush of emotion she might not have, were she in her right mind. Normally, she did not mind when he laughed at her, but she felt so miserable – and in such a state… wasn't she allowed dignity? "Don't laugh at me," she demanded, impetuous in her current state.

He continued to laugh at her. Belle whined, and he looked at her, leveling a look at her that made her feel like a child. She almost instantly felt foolish, but reasoned she was right in doing so – she was not feeling well. For all the grace and poise a princess was supposed to possess, Belle had never been a good patient. "I'm serious," she pouts, before another fit of coughs comes upon her – she closed her eyes with a troubled sigh.

"Of course you are, dearie," he responded coolly. It didn't sound like he doubted her, at all, but she could practically feel the smile on his face. How atrocious of him. She tried to turn herself over and onto her side, but grunted with the effort it took and fell back onto her back. "Don't strain yourself," he offered, though sounded more like an order than a calm, soothing remark.

She settled on her back, turning her head to the other side, trying to relieve herself of some of the heat – suddenly feeling feverish again, and she felt like she sounded and looked pitiful. Little hisses of pain, whimpers, and constant movement all suggesting discomfort. "I will never do laundry again!" she practically cried, feeling so forlorn about being in bed and feeling so miserable.

"If this is the result every time, certainly not," Rumpelstiltskin quipped, causing Belle to groan. She heard whatever he was using to stir strike the side of the pot and some clanking from near the fire. He must have been moving whatever it was – doing something else to it – she could certainly smell it closer. The sound of liquid hitting another surface – presumably the intended one, as she heard no curses muttered from his lips. And then steps – forward, forward…

She forced her eyes opened and let out a shaky breath. He was carrying the largest mug she had seen and it was steaming in his hands. He put it down on the stand next to the bed and pursed his lips. Without what seemed like a second thought, he gently slipped his hands under her back and legs to help her sit up. She held in a whimper and even attempted to push herself up, though her arms were like wet noodles. He humored her, raising his eyebrows but making no mention of her efforts.

He turned back to the table and sighed. "You know, Dearie," he sounded very exasperated, though she could see, even in her fevered state there was no malice in his eyes, "I am beginning to think I am the caretaker here," he could not help but let his lips twitch into a smile.

"I guess," she smiled weakly, coughing still, "I have wracked up a lifetime of debts to you, then," she felt in good humor for a moment, looking up at him while he was being so attentive.

He rolled his eyes at her, "I lost count after three lifetimes." He looked at her, then the bed, and then a chair, seeming to consider his options. He stood, next to the edge, and frowned. "Pinch your nose and drink," he instructed – not giving her time to actually do so before he put the mug to her face. She gasped, the smell was terrible – herbs and whatever else he used boiled in water… she felt her stomach heave. "The longer you wait, the worse it will be," he said with some level of impatience.

Belle licked her lips and reached up, doing her best to pinch her nose closed as tight as she could before taking a drink. Even with her nose plugged, even drinking as quickly as she could, the mixture was vile. Her face felt hot and the back of her neck clammy as her stomach did flops in her abdomen. "This is terrible," she gasped, sputtering and coughing, trying not to gag.

If he was disturbed, he did not let on – and just stood, patiently while she adjusted, "Keep going," he urged, pushing it forward. Though Belle knew he was right, she did not want to keep going. Her desire to be rebellious was directly challenged by her desire to not be sick. "Anytime now, dearie," he sighed, so much impatience and she looked up at him through thick lashes as she took another deep drink – two more like it and it would be gone.

Belle resigned herself to this task, just like so many others she had gotten thrust at her since she had come here – making the transition that much worse over the winter. But, the disgusting concoction was gone. Her stomach felt full and unsettled, she groaned and her head dipped a little, the feeling definitely taking a toll. "Bed for the rest of the day," he finally came out and said, "I'll make another for you tonight," she went to open her mouth and he cut her off with the swift wave of his hand, "until then, you sleep."

He was gone without another word from her, and Belle slid down into the silky sheets, feeling miserable, her stomach jerking around in her core, and head entering that hazy period between being awake and asleep. Whatever was in that mixture was working its magic to her core and she felt disoriented and strange – her head was light, but not necessarily in a bad way. All she wanted to do was sleep. And sleep she did.

Rumpelstiltskin administered the same regiment to her for what felt like days. Time moved slowly, awkwardly, and she couldn't tell whether it was night or day. He brought her bread to eat, though she seldom touched it, and that mix… whatever it was, that made her fall into that hazy place. She could feel, sometimes, her cheeks wet and her hand would brush against her wet cheek – it was almost like feeling mist – she knew it was wet, but it was so distant…

The passage of time was dimly marked by the light peeking through the curtains, not that she could always tell. It seemed like the fever was getting worse, and sometimes, remotely, she reached out and cried, but the one she was supposed to be caretaking was diligent in what he was to do, and did not linger. She sometimes felt warmth on her forehead, then a cool swipe of something soft and damp. She leaned into it whenever it came, and sometimes there would be a presence next to her that she tried to cling to. But, whenever she reached out – it was gone…

Her moments of lucidity were only defined by that horrible concoction, until finally, she was starting to feel a bit better… until she no longer felt chills even though everything burnt, and she could tell the difference between hours and minutes… seconds and what felt like ages. It was all coming back together, and the next time he came in, from the last time she remembered him, he looked at her for a moment. "How are you doing this afternoon?" he asked, not even pausing before he started the fire with a snap of his fingers, deftly working to begin the brew.

"It's afternoon?" she asked with a small, tired smile. She was able to push her hair back, feeling it was all messy and greasy… she would love a bath… He looked at her, the corner of his mouth pulled into a smirk with a brief laugh. "I will take that as a yes," she said with a lazy smile, her eyelids half-shut as she sat up in the bed by herself for the first time in however long she had been sick – she could only figure several days.

He sighed, the chair by the fire in his employ as he continued to stir. "Two more days in bed and you should be well," he informed her, sounding quite hopeful. "It's a good thing too," he added, "or the castle would look like it did when you first arrived."

Belle laughed weakly, still feeling the cough in her chest, though her throat no longer burned. "I will be very busy once I'm well," she sighed, but did not pout. She was terribly bored, even the book laying on the side table was not enough for her – her head was still hazy and full, she couldn't concentrate for more than a paragraph or so.

"Most assuredly, dearie," he looked over his shoulder, smiling at her. "I'm sure no one has ever told you this, but may I be the first to say: you are a terrible patient." It was perhaps the longest sentence he had ever said to her, and Belle felt a flush immediately rush to her cheeks. She pursed her lips, not wanting to admit it, and her eyebrows pulled together to form a deep furrow. "I stand corrected," he grinned, "Let me guess: nurses a plenty as a young girl, bowing to your every fevered whine…"

Belle's hard expression turned to a deep curiosity… her jaw slackened a little and then a thought struck her. Her eyebrows shot up and she leaned forward, "What do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing to worry about," he repeated twice, lilting off into a giggle at the end. Belle felt suddenly hot – what had she said? Was this some kind of joke? Biting the inside of her cheek, she felt flustered and frustrated.

"Horrid man!" she announced, taking the smallest pillow to her side and without a thought, pulled her arm back to throw it. Despite her effort, the pillow does not go very far, and Rumpelstiltskin laughs so hard that he actually grabbed his stomach to reign himself in.

Belle flushes even deeper pink and he pours the awful mix into the mug that she has learned to hate. "Like I said – you are a terrible patient."


	5. More With Less

**A/N: **Again, thank you so much to all of my readers, hearing you are enjoying my writing is really encouraging and I look forward to reading your comments and seeing all of the favorites/add notifications I get in my email. I am continually surprised, and am so glad I get to update so soon, particularly because I think this chapter is perhaps my favorite so far! I don't own OUaT, but if I did, I would have included a scene like this in "Skin Deep" for sure! Enjoy!

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><p>After recovering from perhaps the worst illness in her memory, Belle was glad to be up and about again – even if it meant going back to cleaning. Certainly, her list of duties was revised to more accurately convey what Rumpelstiltskin thought she was capable of without putting herself into significant danger; of course, his teasing on the issue was not at all welcome. Apparently, he felt the need to offer her a suit of armor, should she think of taking on kitchen grime, for fear she might be slain. A roll of her eyes and his chuckle dismissed any negative feelings between them as a result.<p>

She found herself feeling less apprehensive around him. He was not quite so scary as she originally thought – not half the beast everyone had made him out to be. She was now positive he did not eat children – as she prepared all of his meals, and never once had baby appeared on the menu, and even more than that, despite his general propensity toward coldness, he never laid a hand on her. He was, by all accounts, an aloof gentleman, even though he was prone to temper tantrums.

Sometimes, she even found herself craving his company. At first, she was so engrossed with what she had to do – determined to be the best caretaker one had ever seen (Belle never backed down from a challenge), but now, she had other things on her mind –it got terribly lonely, scrubbing floors and beating rugs… It got even worse when he was gone.

If there was one thing she hated more than being ill, it was being alone. She had never been left alone as a princess; there were people everywhere, all of the time. Even if she didn't like them, they were there. Now, she was left for days on end, with only herself, books, and cleaning to keep her company. The scrubbing brush was not quite the master of repartee that Rumpelstiltskin was…

And he disappeared at the oddest of times. Even more odd were his returning hours. Sometimes, she would be sitting in front of the fire in the main hall, having fallen asleep with the tea set on the edge of the wooden table, and he'd gently wake her – always barely touching. They seldom touched more than a brief brush. Belle had never been particularly moved to physical expressions was keenly aware of how much it bothered her that he seemed to go out of his way to avoid even brushing up against her in passing.

For some reason, she found herself feeling self-conscious. Had she done something wrong? Was this some kind of strange psychological torture? With so little company and so much… space, she felt so isolated. When he was home (how odd she thought of this as home more and more often), she found herself spending more and more time in his company, and closer.

One afternoon, after a full morning of cleaning, Belle decided she would place herself on the floor near the spinning wheel. She had decided to change after cleaning for the morning, and when she walked into the room, skirt swishing over the crisp white petticoat, her hair tied back still retaining its loose curls, she smiled, holding her book in her hand. The dress was the latest in her quickly growing collection of dresses, all practical with only hints of elegance. This one was a bit different, though, it's three-quarter length sleeves with bows at the elbows and just a peek of lace was not meant for work. Even the bodice was a little more intricate than she was used to here, with a square cut neckline, edged in delicate lace, a silk rose at the center.

It was Rumpelstiltksin's turn to be surprised by an entrance, and when he glanced up from his wheel, his deft hands stopped working. The wheel stilled, and he seemed frozen. Belle smiled, a sweet little smile, and felt herself practically strutting. "Good afternoon," she greeted cheerfully, using her resolve to approach and do exactly what she intended: she was going to sit near him.

When it appeared he could respond, obviously getting over the fact she had surprised him, he gruffly shrugged his shoulders and grunted a greeting – bad mood, she noted – and turned his eyes directly back toward his spinning. "Good to see you too," she laughed, non-fazed, and drops onto the ground, far more gracefully than she expected, and smoothed out the folds so it wouldn't wrinkle too terrible.

"Don't you have scrubbing to attend to?" he asked with irritation. "Or something to dust?" he offered up, not looking at her, even for a second.

Belle flipped the pages of the book open, a pressed flower as her bookmark. "I've finished my chores until dinner." She sighed – chapter three, her favorite. Of all of the books she found in his library, this had quickly become one of her favorites – magic, mystery, adventure, romance – the stuff dreams were made of! Pursing her lips for a moment, she looked up at him, placing the flower back in the page. "Have you read this?" she turned over the leather bound cover in her hands, it must have been worth so much.

He glanced over briefly and laughed. "I don't read fairy stories, dearie," he said, almost condescending. "Everyone knows happy endings are for children." His voice is bitter, he practically spits out the last sentiment. Belle sees something other than bitterness written on his face though, there's heaviness and sadness there.

Belle shakes her head softly clicking her tongue, "They are not," she disagrees adamantly as she traces her fingers over the title, emblazoned in gold on the front, "all the best stories are about adults," she pointed out with a happy sigh, opening up cover, and holding it up to show him the illustration of the two adult protagonists in an intimate embrace.

He scoffed, turning his head away from the picture, and Belle frowned. She heard him murmur something to himself, though his voice was low, and she furrowed her brows. "What's wrong?" she asked, curiously, but also a little miffed that he should find her favorite book so laughable – so inconsequential and childish.

He shook his head at her. "Have you not seen enough in your life?" he poses it to her in a flat tone. "Enough to see… that," he stops spinning for a brief second, motioning to the book with a sharp wave of his hand, "isn't real."

Belle feels a bubble of anger in her chest. Her kingdom, before he showed up, was being devastated and ravaged by ogres. They were practically unstoppable, she had been forced into an engagement with a man she did not – and could not – love, and was watching her father worry himself to death over the state of affairs in their holdings. He did not know anything of what she had seen, even if he pretended to know so much, and she bit the inside of her cheek. "I would hate to be so lost in tragedy that I couldn't believe there is something better out there," she declared out loud, flipping the pages.

There was a silence between them, and she heard the wheel stop spinning. She did not look up, but she could feel a hot gaze on the back of her neck. Her hair felt like it was standing on end and she slowly drew her hand over the fine paper, feeling just how expensive it was, and admiring the craftsmanship. It was not just a repository of words, after all, but a beautiful object – too long covered by dust and unappreciated here, like so many things in this place. "Still hoping for an 'out there'?" he asks with a harsh, bark of a laugh.

She scowled, perhaps for the first time, truly angry at him. And she let out a deep breath through her nose, trying not to feel self-righteous, like she did when she was at home. She hated feeling insulted, and reminding herself she was no longer entitled to being treated like a princess was a difficult concept to grasp, particularly when his behavior was so erratic. He would patiently and gently attend to her one day, and then dismiss her as a foolish little girl the next. That's what that laugh was, really, a dismissal.

Belle would not be dismissed. "I endeavor to be happy wherever I am," she said primly, looking at the first page of the first chapter. The 'O' was ornately decorated and between the chapter number and the first sentences was a small illustration, a young woman from behind, gazing out over a valley, nestled between hills, her arms out and ready.

Even though he was making her so frightfully angry, she was not going to leave this spot and give him the satisfaction. She believed in happy endings, even if she had to make it herself. "You have certainly had your work cut out for you," he quipped in return, this time smiling at her, so devious – so much in an effort to paint himself as this horrible creature that delighted on her misery. She knew this was not the case – he cared, just a little, even if he denied it.

"I have made more with less," she shrugged – dismissing him this time. He sniffed, obviously off put by the comment, perhaps disbelieving – though she could not see how he could not believe her – even he was aware of the basic situation of the life that seemed to be removed by lifetimes.

She remembered sitting silently, as she was instructed, at the table negotiating her engagement. How she had wished to cry mercilessly as her father and Gaston negotiated her hand, military support and money in exchange for her hand. She did not cry though, no matter how hard she wished to, no matter how hopeless the prospect of marrying Gaston seemed. She'd tried to make the best of it, of course, that did not mean that she didn't find something better (_was it better?_) at the first available opportunity.

When she looked up at him, under thick lashes, he looked contemplative, and befuddled. There was something not quite… right. He glanced over at her and his expression softened, though she did not know why, and he sighed. "You may read aloud, if you like," he finally said, as though he could read her mind.

She wouldn't put it past him if he could, and she cleared her throat, trying not to blush too deeply, tried not to giggle too loudly. But, she couldn't help herself. She giggled and looked at him, feeling more playful and amused than she had in weeks, "You want me to read it," she practically sang with triumph, "I'm willing to wager deep down, you love this book as much as I do - maybe more!"

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Dearie," his lips quirked into a smirk. "You already owe me for lifetimes – you needn't have another debt on your head." He spins, slower now, but with careful hands and steadfast eyes. There is something so graceful about him when he spins – she lacked that grace, and always felt all elbows and knees, especially tripping up around here.

But, she giggled regardless and shook her head, lowering her eyes to the text that was made to read aloud. After all, what were fairy stories you couldn't share? "I do not hear any denial, Rumpelstiltskin," she teased, looking up at him with an expression she is sure could melt stone and cause teeth to rot – she felt so rotten and sugary-sweet. Somehow, he brought this wicked streak out of her.

She saw the struggle on his face – trying so hard not to smile, and Belle laughed so brightly, and he resolved even further to not smile, even if it meant twisting his face into the most absurd expression she had ever seen. "I'll retract my offer…" he threatened, though lamely.

Belle knew better, though and rolled her eyes at him – he always looked so surprised every time. She supposed many people did not roll their eyes at the 'Dark One.' But, she was not just anyone, and even in the face of a man so feared, she could not be cowed into submission. So, she lovingly flattened the page, and tilted her head, licking her bottom lip before she began… "Once upon a time…"


	6. Fresh and Sweet

**A/N: **Oh my Gosh, thank you all for the encouraging words that I've gotten as a result of writing this. I'm so excited to see more and more notifications and reviews, which I really love to read! Keep them coming and I'll do my best to keep my writing coming as well. This chapter includes references to "Skin Deep," which I think will help everyone with a little bit of chronology. And with that, I do not own OUaT, and hope you all enjoy! Continue reading, reviewing, and enjoying! :)

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><p>After the first unfortunate (and confusing) mishap, Belle was not going to take any chances. Cradled in his arms, as though she were a ragdoll, she felt her breath hitch in her throat. She did not touch him – ever. But in such a position, she realized just how… warm he was. She had always assumed his skin would be cold and alarming, but that was not the case. He was hot to the touch, and getting that close, she could see his skin, while kind of a grey-green had a distinct golden tint to it – just like his eyes. They were so much more interesting up close – chocolate brown, but flecked with gold…Her voice was stuck in her throat, and she felt her whole body flush.<p>

Even he seemed thrown off. It piqued her interest, wondering what he was thinking and why it had thrown him off so much. He knew she was clumsy, and yet, he looked at her like she had grown a third eye… Then put her down, flexing his fingers, as though he was supremely uncomfortable – and then he assured her he would get used to it…

It had struck her, very keenly. He had not accommodated any arrangements in the castle for her, and by the end of the morning, after she had cleaned a number of the bedrooms, all of the curtains were down. Every last one was gone.

As every afternoon approached, she thought about how meals were quickly becoming her favorite part of the day, sitting – even quietly, in the big hall with his company. Any company was welcome, but she felt like today, she really looked forward to it. It had been so bright and beautiful in here, with the windows all uncovered – every time she passed a window, she had to lean her head back and soak in as much sun as humanly possible.

For days, she felt a triumphant sensation whenever she walked by a bare window, the sun streaming down on her, bathing her in its warm glow. She still, of course, toted her shawl around, but it hung loosely over her arms now, instead of tightly clasped around her to ward off the cold. And it was certainly cold, even despite the sun. Triumph only lasted in the face of the transparent panes, however.

He made all efforts to avoid touching her, even when she passed him his teacup, or served him meals. He stepped away when she stepped forward, and she, occasionally did the same. It was a strange dance they had, moving back and forth… but like the chastest of courtly dances, it was all about eyes, never hands. When their eyes met, Belle's cheeks felt hot and she couldn't discern the look he had in his eyes – so clouded with mystery. Everything about him was cloaked in mystery.

She wondered about it for days, moving so carefully through the castle to avoid awkward encounters. She did not want to upset him, after all. And he seemed so much testier recently. He had thrown a vase the previous day – some deal gone wrong, she presumed. It was funny; the angry Rumpelstiltskin was not the one she was afraid of, not in the slightest. It was when he made her blush and her heart race that she was truly scared… So, she avoided it for as long as she could – for several days until it had gone so long since a significant interaction that she forgot her apprehensions.

As she walked through the halls, she could see the clouds were gathering in the sky and there was that familiar look of rain. Even despite this, she took whatever sun seeped through the clouds and felt like it was giving her a new life. Belle grabbed her shawl from her 'room,' and then rushed to fetch the afternoon meal and tea. Her cheeks actually started to hurt as she carried the tray toward the hall. So, when she pushed the door open, he was sitting at the wheel, the windows bare and revealing the early spring sky – ready to open up and send the world in a frenzy of water. She didn't realize, until he looked up, "Humming?" that she had even been doing it, and flushed pink.

"It is all this freshness," her step was springier than usual, placing the tray on the table, glancing around the room. It felt so much lighter, but the air was still… not quite right. But, she started to pour the tea anyway, looking at him out of the corner of her eye, "Perhaps we could even open a window? It looks so much like rain."

"Dearie," he sounded amused, pushing himself up from the wheel, "Why would we open the window if you think it will rain?" he raised an eyebrow, taking his cup, as he always did, perching in his seat like the master of the house he was.

All she could do was shake her head though, and sighed longingly, "The smell." Her shoulders dropped and she stared at the windows, a pleased sound buzzing in the back of her throat – he shifted in his seat. She hoped that he would allow even one to be opened. But each latch remained in its place, much to her dismay.

"The smell?" he replied, sounding so skeptical. His lip was curled just enough that Belle thought he looked like an angry cat, or one faced with a bath. She couldn't imagine he didn't understand that rain had a smell – especially spring rain.

She practically did a spin, landing facing the windows brimming with light, throwing her arms out and her head back – she was giddy. "Yes! It's fresh and sweet, with just a hint of grass in the air," she sighed, turning back toward him, clasping her hands in front of her chest with a hopeful smile, imploring him to open them. "Please?" she felt like a child, but she so wanted this.

He pursed his lips, taking stock of her. "You have been reading too many fairy stories," he nodded decisively, more for his own sake than hers, she assumed. And then, he raked his eyes over her, perhaps judging just how badly she wanted that window open… she felt suddenly exposed. Her smile did not dampen though, and she batted her eyelashes – if she couldn't win one way, she would win another. He sighed and in a flash, his hand was up and he snapped. The window next to her creaked open and Belle felt a gust of spring wind as it lifted her curls and brushed her skirt around her ankles.

"Thank you!" she let out an excited squeak she rushed forward and threw her arms around him without a second thought. It seemed so natural for a moment, until his whole body tensed and Belle realized… she just… Oh, this was awkward. Pulling away, it was the second time in one week that they had made awkward contact- that he made her feel warm all over, her cheeks burned and her chest tightened.

She retreated. Inside, her head is screaming, _do the brave thing and bravery will follow, _but she was not doing the brave thing. She was petrified of him, of how he commanded such a presence when she got close – how he made her embarrassed and girlish, it was so strange. The way he took always stepped back, it was obvious he was scared of her too; she could see it in his face.

He tugged on the bottom of his vest, finding anything to do with his hands, and he sniffed, so trying to be proper. It surprised her – when she was being dragged into his life, she was fairly certain he would care nothing for propriety and rules, but it was quite the opposite: he respected almost every rule there was, except, of course, polite conversation. "Yes, well, your window," he murmurs, still tugging at his vest, and then at the silky cuffs of his shirt… she notices a discreet burn mark on it– most assuredly her doing – she might not have done any washing, but she did attempt to iron… once... Much like laundering, it was forbidden territory now… (Honestly, how was she supposed to know silk burned so easily?)

She laughed anxiously, and wrapped her shawl tight around herself. "Thank you," she smiled, fidgeting a bit before she moved over to the widow, glancing at him every few steps. He looked so awkward, standing there and staring. She was glad for the distraction of pushing the windows further open to look over the grounds. She took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling slowly with the fresh air, her eyes fluttering closed as a result. All she needed was the sound of outdoors and the smell – they wrapped around her and she felt an instant comfort.

"I should like to go outside," she sighed, mostly to herself as she opened her eyes. The grounds, she could tell, at one point, had been landscaped perfectly, without a single leaf out of line. Now, they were overgrown and wild. She found it so much more interesting than the neatly kept gardens at home, where you always knew what was growing where and how nothing every crossed paths, she could see here, it was a different story altogether.

She did not expect an answer, so when she heard his voice start, in that deep timbre, Belle started, looking over her shoulder. "Not in the rain, dearie," the right corner of his lip twitched upward, "We know you do not fare well in water." Belle laughed and he let out a deep breath.

"Starting this evening," he paused, swallowing, "I will be gone for the next several days," he finally announced. "Business in Gilder," he briefly explained. She knew what that meant, and knew not to ask about it. He was going to make a deal, create an exchange. He gave what was desired, but took something in return. She wondered what it would be this time. She just nodded, letting the spring storm wind blow against her face, a few drops of drizzle wetting her cheeks, nose, and lips.


	7. Such Silly Things

**A/N: **Part seven is here! I'm so glad I have such fantastic followers for this story and truly appreciate all of the superbly nice things you all have had to say! Thanks for all of the encouragement and I hope my work continues to please! Obligatory notice that I do not own OUaT... now story time!

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><p>While he was gone, Belle found herself lagging. She did not want to scrub; she sat by the windows for longer and longer, soaking in the sunlight and the spring breeze. But, it was time for more cleaning than ever – spring cleaning, as it were. Some of the rooms she had not dared to touch before were on her radar, and when she was not staring out at the wild gardens, she was wondering about the best way to tackle the newest bout of cleaning. The weather had not improved, she mourned near the windows, heeding his advice to avoid the outdoors until it cleared.<p>

So, instead, she tended to the places that needed the most cleaning. When she cleaned his room, she always felt like she was violating his privacy… But, it had to be done, as he was not going to do it himself, and as caretaker it was her duty. When she had first seen his room, she was surprised. It was so sparse. For a… person… who lived in such a vast, stunning castle, his taste was simple. He did not live lavishly, at least not privately, and she considered what that meant about him – how strange it was that someone so outwardly concerned with appearance wouldn't sleep on the finest linens and possess the most ornate furnishings.

She was used to it now, though. The plainness did not bother her for any reason other than it was unexpected. There was so much more to him than she thought, she realized – and for the first time, was glad he was not around to allow her to give in to her first impulse: to ask questions. She did her best to not pry, of course, but as she started picking up clothing that was strewn this way and that way, Belle noticed something odd.

On the bed, neatly laid out was a pair of trousers. They were cut from coarse cloth, a tunic of the same variety, though a slightly different color accompanied them. She frowned; they were small – not for a toddler, but certainly not for a man either. Somewhere in adolescence these clothes had been used – she did not know if they were his clothes, a nostalgic keepsake for himself, or a child. Perhaps there was some validity to the rumors of child abduction… not that she had witnessed it.

No, that was silly, she assured herself. He was not that type of man, even if he wanted people, her, to believe he was. The thought to touch them crossed her mind, but as she reached out, she suddenly felt a distinct pang of guilt. She left the clothes where they sat and instantly left the room. It felt so wrong… to look, especially to touch. There was something melancholic about those simple articles of clothing, worn with age and matted with dirt – she felt terrible for intruding and carried the dirty clothes out, shutting the door behind her.

Though she was not washing the laundry, it did not mean she was not sewing, and she needed to distract herself. The image of that simple, small set of clothes, lying out as though a young boy might be getting ready at any moment, was plaguing her. Who was he? What story was behind there? She bit her lip and tried to focus on her stitches, particularly in the leather that was ripped about the ankles, and a seam split on the side. She would have asked what happened in them, but part of her was sure she did not wish to know.

While her mind swam with thoughts and ideas, she continued to sew. In the kingdom, she had been taught to daintily embroider pillows and hankies, create tokens for lovers, and the like. Here, she was sitting by the fire in her room hemming pants and fixing rips in seams. It was almost laughable, she thought, and then held up the pair of pants.

She was horrified. One leg was a hand shorter than the other, and the other was so much thinner than it originally had been… her stitching was uneven as well… she frowned, the leather was thick, she knew that, and she had a bit of trouble to begin with, but she had thought she had the hang of it… Biting her lip, she looked around; almost afraid he might show up and see what she had done.

Of course, then, she felt a distinct pang of curiosity. She was alone; there was no chance of being caught… Belle stood from the chair in her room, having feeling brazen, and loosened the tie on her skirt. It fell to the floor unceremoniously, exposing her pale legs to the air in the room, mixing with the heat from the fire. A devilish thought crossed her mind – she had never worn pants before. It was always considered far too masculine, and even when she wanted to ride, she had been barred from wearing them. She had no one barring her now, however, and daintily she stepped out of the ring of skirt, lowering the waist of the britches to put her feet in.

She pointed her toes and screwed her face in concentration as she attempted to poke her foot through – finding this more difficult than she imagined, and hopped around on one foot before she actually got her foot in. With a triumphant squeak, she pulled the leg up to her knee, and then, with slightly less effort, got her other foot through the other leg. It was not perfect, she noticed, the ankles being too big and… she couldn't help but laugh, hemmed so poorly… but she pulled them up, the leather becoming more snug over her thighs and bum – clearly far more contoured than those of Rumpelstiltskin, and she giggled, working at the laces and pulling them shut.

The waist was a bit loose, but the back was snug… so she tugged just a little tighter on the laces and sighed. This was so… strange. She licked her lips, unsure of how she felt, and decided she needed to take a few steps… putting her leg forward, she felt so… exposed. Now, of course, pants were designed for more practical purposes, and she certainly could move more easily, she reasoned as she strutted about her room. The strutting of course, reminded her of her master, and she let out a brilliant laugh as she imagined walking through the halls, ordering things about and making deals in such silly things.

She couldn't say they were necessarily more comfortable, but they were less cumbersome. Why, these might solve all of her problems, she reasoned – the tripping, the clumsiness, maybe she just needed a change in style! She laughed, giddily taking the leather off and changing for bed – dare she say it, excited for tomorrow?

Running around the castle in a pair of pants truly brought out the laughter in her. Even if she was alone, all of her chores became exponentially easier. She could get up and down without tripping all over herself and she could climb without stepping on a hem – even better, folds did not get stuck in the ladder rungs, and she stepped on nothing – she laughed at the ease of tasks, happily taking to cleaning the top shelves, something she usually despised.

In between bouts of excited laughter – it was as though she could not keep it – particularly with the windows open, breeze blowing and free, she sang to herself. She sang anything – songs from childhood, minstrel tunes, her own creations as she dragged the feather duster over the dusty objects perched high above the main hall. She was so engrossed in her singing and laughing that she did not know what was going on beneath until she felt a strange sensation… was she… being watched?

Looking down, she squeaked in surprise. "Rumpelstiltskin!" she breathed, clutching one hand on the ladder and the other over her heart, "You gave me such a fright!" and laughed again, her lips quirking into a smile.

His hand was also over his heart, it seemed like he was staring for quite some time before he opened his mouth. "What are you up to, dearie?" he asked, his voice had a strange quality to it – was that restraint? No… it was something different. She didn't recognize the tone.

So, she just smiled and wrinkled her nose. "My eyes in dirt!" she called down with a peal of laughter. "I have gotten so much done today," she informed him, sighing as she rubbed her dirty hand on her thigh – the leather repelled dirt, for the most part, but a faded handprint remained there after her hand moved away.

"I… can see that…" he spoke deliberately, rubbing the bottom half of his face with his hand. She giggled at him, looking so perplexed, and the brazen young woman grabbed the sides of the ladder and decided she would show off just how much better off she was now. She let one leather sole rest on the smooth side panel of the ladder and she pushed off, starting to slide down.

She heard a gasp from below and she giggled the whole way down, no skirts to trip over and she was done in seconds. Her heels hit the floor with a slight thump and her curls were all over – messily arranged; there was the sheen of sweat on her face and her arms covered in dirt. She imagined she must have been quite a sight. "Impressed?" she grinned, bright and bubbly – she cold see why he looked so out of sorts, she couldn't even recall when she felt this happy.

He pursed his lips and took a deep breath, letting it out exceptionally slowly. It did not appear he was all that impressed. Her smile faltered and she put her hands on her hips – another easy task, considering her attire. "A little… underdressed aren't we?" he did that thing he did, with his hands pulled up close to his chest and the one finger searching and pointing. He did not sound confident this time, however, and Belle looked down at herself, then up at him.

"Oh!" she smiled, "I know I should have asked first… but, these were all ripped, and to fix them – well, they were short and I had to take inches in… so I thought instead of throwing them away they could be of use," she babbled, she did that when she tried to explain herself, "and I found they fit! Imagine that, and even more, I have gotten so much more done today than I thought possible." She smiled at him, hoping to please him – it was one of the small rewards she got out of this life, and she had always sought to please, to some degree.

It was the duty of a princess, after all, to please. Not that she had ever been particularly good at that part of the duty, she reminded herself. She watched his throat as he swallowed hard, only just barely visible above his shirt and between the high collar of his vest. She felt the heat of embarrassment as his eyes started travelling from her feet to her face so slowly.

Belle lifted her chin, ready to stand to scrutiny, despite the fact she would have gladly curled up into herself. Her slippers were the same – the pants were uneven, by her own bumbling, and she wore a short white chemise and one of her bodices, simple and hunter green. Her hair was a fright and she knew she looked ridiculous, but he did not laugh at her. He looked so intense. She blushed, and felt ashamed.

"I've a mess of work to do in the kitchen," she finally blurted out, a half smile decorating her face. "I should attend to that…" she started to step backward, an awkward laugh and a forced smile following quickly after.

Rumpelstiltskin shook his head, waving his hand. "Do not let me stop you," he finally announced; his voice was dry and – did she hear a crack? No, she must have fooled herself. But, she did see that he turned on his heel more quickly than she had ever seen him turn and he went immediately to his wheel. He always went to the wheel when he was thinking of something he did not wish to share. "Go about your business," he murmured, plucking at the thread that remained untouched in days.

"_Why do you spin so much?"_

"_I like to watch the wheel… it helps me forget." _

Belle stood still for a moment, biting the inside of her bottom lip. "Of course," she answers simply as she makes her way back toward the ladder. The fabric of the pants pulled tight against her legs as she climbed upward. She did not look down, oblivious to the fact he was staring, or just pretending it was not happening.

She was perched up above, though the songbird was silenced and the only accompaniment to her diligence was the spinning of the wheel. How quickly the routines resumed. It was the last time she would wear those pants.


	8. A Better Idea

**A/N: **Thanks for all the reviews, favorites, and comments, guys! I really appreciate it, and would have posted this earlier, if not for the fact that was being crazy last night and wouldn't let me. It was supposed to be an extra Sunday treat, but I guess it's a little something to brighten up Monday Morning :) Enjoy, R&R, and remember I don't own OUaT.

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><p>Belle refrained from wearing the pants when he was around. When he was not, however, it was fair game. She'd made a small collection of the ripped ones for herself. Because the fabric was so thick, any tears would automatically be beyond her skill in repair, and thus, unsuitable for his use, so she took them, and put them in her drawers, waiting until he was gone to wear them.<p>

The smell of leather had become so comforting – it reminded her of company, and it gave her a sense of security. But, she didn't wear it in front of him – if she did, he avoided her, and she hated that.

So, she kept her secrets to herself, and tried to make it as pleasant as possible, particularly as the weather picked up. The sun shone, and it rained less and less, until the green of the wild bushes was lush and bright, and the flowers that poked out of the greenery were all colors she could have imagined.

With all of the windows open, she could smell spring. Its calming breezes embraced her, and she laughed and sang to herself without remorse. Sometimes, if she was lucky and it was a festival day, as there were so many in the early days of spring, she could hear the music floating up from the town below the citadel. He always complained about the peasant racket, but when she looked at him, when he supposed she wasn't looking – she always saw his foot bobbing up and down, and she'd sing peasant songs, and laugh and generally forced him to adjust to her way of doing things. He did not complain (much). When he did, she just smiled at him and he would shrug, pretending not to acquiesce to her desires, but – they both knew better, didn't they?

On this afternoon, while she was cleaning the windows and using a hefty amount of elbow grease, she heard and felt him approaching behind her. "Good morning," she chirped. His footsteps stopped dead in his tracks and she smiled to herself – he thought he was so stealthy when he walked, really if he wanted to surprise he all he had to do was materialize. There was no sneaking on her anymore.

"Morning," he greeted blandly, leaving out the good – he always did. He thought he was so funny, she knew it. She did not laugh at him, but rather smiled over her shoulder and wrinkled her nose like she always did – it miffed him, of course, and that's why she continued to do it.

"Beautiful day isn't it?" she sighed, dropping the rag in her hand to the side and leaned close to the glass, fogging it with her hot breath momentarily. Her eyes scanned the garden and she grinned despite herself. The sky was clear, not even one fluffy cloud obscured her view, and everything looked so full of life.

He sniffed to her question and when she looked at him, he was absently readjusting his cuffs. "That was actually what I came to speak to you about," the casual nature of the comment surprised Belle and she raised her eyebrows at him, wanting to know the catch. When he caught the look, he grinned. "No deals, my dear."

She pretended to be surprised and stepped down from kneeling on the ledge to smooth out her skirt and smile sweetly. "Well, what about the weather then? I didn't think we'd still need to dance around things with small talk," she laughed, mimicking a little bit of one of the court dances she remembered, lifting her skirt just a little to reveal her prancing feet.

He rolled his eyes at her with a low chuckle. These moments were the comfortable ones, she thought with a smile and dropped her skirt, untangling her fingers from the light, almost minty, but with a little too much grey in it for that, green fabric. "Care for a walk, dearie?" he held out his hand to her, bowing just slightly. How he liked to play at playing a gentleman.

There was part of him that very clearly thought he was not as considerate and gentlemanly as he actually was, and Belle could not imagine why. Though she could not read his mind (she highly doubted that even if she could, she would), he had never actually approached her in any way that was not entirely built on cordial, respectful behavior. "I've got a better idea," she smiled, clasping her now worked hands over his– she imagined her palms was almost as rough as his now, "what about a dance?" she laughed, lifting his arm up and spinning, practically tripping over herself in the process – drat her petticoat.

He raised his eyebrows at her, giving her that look that he always did when she was being childish, and she let out a deep breath, rolling her eyes upward. "You are a fuddy-duddy," she informed him with a pout, but squeezed his hand to assure him she was kidding. "To answer you question, I would love a walk," she brought it back to the original offer, and looked at him expectantly.

With a shake of his head, he inclined the other hand toward the door, "Beauty before age," he jested and she giggled softly, letting go of his hand to walk forward – the doors opening for her without a single push – he always did that when he was making a point, and she headed straight for the glass doors she had looked at longingly for so much time, usually latched shut. Her feet carried her faster and she stopped in front of them, looking back at him with a hint of anxiety. He smiled and she turned back, the doors were open.

With the warmth of the sun calling her forward, Belle tentatively stepped out onto the caved stone stairway leading down into the garden. Her breath hitched in her throat and then she stopped. She was on the precipice of the first step and she felt her heart thumping against her ribs. "What is it, dearie?" he asks over her shoulder – barely a whisper, and a shiver travels down her spine. This was what she had been dreaming of for weeks – and it was here.

"Nothing," she breathed slowly, slipping her feet out of her shoes – her bare feet touching the stone heated from the sun – and then she started to run. She skipped steps, her skirt tightly wrapped up in her hands, until she was finally down on the path, her toes wiggling on the hot stones and her head thrown back with a smile thrown toward the clear sky. She let go of her skirt and rushed toward a little man-made pond with flower bushes surrounding it.

It felt like her first spring, as though she was born anew and each color assaulted her eyes in the most pleasant of ways, the sun bearing down on her with delectable pleasure. It was like a thousand soft caresses on her face and neck and collar bones – her cold toes brought to life by a spark against hot stone and fertile dirt. She felt manic, rushing down the path into the center of the garden she had only seen from above.

The fragrances of the flowers made her dizzy with delight and she wished to pick every single one and make perfume upon perfume to just remember the all encompassing aroma of this moment. She pressed flowers to her nose, felt them tickle her skin, and paid no mind to stepping into the soil – unless, of course, she was checking to make sure she was not squashing any young buds. They deserved to grow and see sun too, after all.

And then she peered into the pond and squeaked with delight – fish! Huge fish, she realized they were orange and white with splotches of black – how exotic! And some, dare she believe it? Some of them even looked gold, shimmering in the sunlight against the water. She gasped, kneeling by the edge and felt her knees sink into the soft, slightly overgrown grass. She dipped her fingers into the water and wiggled them – the beautiful fish swimming up and nibbling on the ends. She shrieked with laughter, the sensation tickling, but she did not pull her hands away, giggling away before she plopped down, right there, near the side of the pool, a veritable sea of spring snowflakes growing behind her. She breathed heavily; not realizing how much she had been running and laughing – looking up to see if Rumpelstiltskin had followed her.

He seemed in no rush to chase after her, and casually followed, his hands clasped behind his back – an amused smile playing at his lips. "Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?" she breathed, wiggling her toes in the tall grass, her hands working at plucking a sprig of hyacinth, its smell overwhelming her in the best way possible. All the sensations of spring and life were reinvigorating.

Belle looked up at him through her thick lashes, blushing at his brief laugh, unable to stop smiling. This was just what she needed. "You know," he started, the right corner of his mouth tugging up just a little higher than the left, he made no effort to avoid eye contact, indeed he seemed to search for it, and Belle felt her stomach tighten, "I don't think I have."


	9. Roads Less Traveled

**A/N: **This is the last chapter of "Cabbages" I'm putting up before my vacation! I will be going on a cruise (Yaaaaay senior present!), but that means I'm going to be away. No worries though, I'll be back after and have something new posted in about a week! Enjoy, R&R, and I can't wait to get more up on this!

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><p>The garden becomes Belle's favorite place as the weather continues to grow warmer and more and more flowers start blooming. She was granted full reign over whatever she wished to do back there as well, which turned out to be very little. She liked the overgrown and wild feeling that the garden gave her. There was always some new alcove to explore and place to hide with a book, should she want to. The only maintenance she really performed was trimming anything dead or dying – it was better for the gardens as a whole, after all.<p>

Then, of course, there were the flowers she took to press – but never more than necessary. Rumpelstiltskin had asked her to pick out a batch of her favorites, the best smelling, and then give them to him. She had not expected that days later she would be gifted a set of small glass bottles full of fragrance. She should have known, but when she tried to thank him, he would hear none of it – like so many other instances – and assured her she was right to reap the fruits of her labor.

And so it went, she was spending less and less time cleaning (more and more of her chores ended up miraculously done – especially after the pants incident…) and she had the free time to spend her days as she chose, except meals. Apparently that was still her duty. When she pressed him on it, he just smiled and asked why he would deprive her of something she showed so much talent for. She had laughed, and then threw a roll at him. He caught it, and unceremoniously took a large bite out of it – making a show of how much he enjoyed it.

Her life was riddled with these little interactions – the things she would write about in a diary, if she had one. Half of her wanted to request one, but she knew he would get too curious and with how sneaky he was, he would find it – and then he would laugh. Belle did not like being laughed at; she was of the proud sort, so she did not put herself in positions of vulnerability, if she could avoid it.

It was part of the reason she had chosen to go – pride stood in the way of bravery, and she so desperately wished to prove herself. Her mother… Belle thought of her sadly, pitying her, so sick and weak. Up until her death, Belle could not remember her doing much of anything – the most physical activity she took on was hosting tea. Belle refused to be that way, so she learned about war strategy and weaseled her way into the council. It was her mother's misfortune that made the fact her father never said no possible.

She never shared these things though, and as she was hands deep in the earth, she realized that all of their conversations were so… basic. They did not discuss anything deeper than the weather, or the flowers she wished to spring forth from the secret plots she came across with each new trip to the garden, or even the book she was reading at any particular time. Sometimes he would tell her of his trips, though never any of the business transactions, as he called them. She knew him, but she knew nothing _of_ him…

After bathing and putting on one of her dresses – the pink one she loved so much (thankfully it was not too hot for the three-quarter sleeves as of yet), and clutched her book to her chest. She had tied her hair back and out of her face, then applied a dab of the homemade perfume was behind each ear, and on the base of her throat for good measure (though her governesses had always told her how improper it was for a lady to dab perfume there… She had never been one for advice from advisors, thankfully).

Heading to the main hall, her book was clutched to her chest and she smiled to see the doors were already open. Inside, he sat at his wheel, briefly glancing up at her. "I trust you enjoyed your day in the garden?" he commented mildly.

Belle nodded with a smile, "Very much so," and sat, just a little closer than normal – so much like the first time she read to him, the time that set a precedence for almost every other night they spent in this room. She'd pick her book and she'd read, he would be silent, for the most part, unless he had some interjection to make, but she would usually ignore him.

But, when she sat tonight, just those couple of inches closer – smelling just a little sweeter, she felt brazen and bold. She was always those things, but it was particularly strong tonight, and he looked at her differently too – or maybe it was all in her head. "What did you pick for tonight?"

Belle looked at the cover of the book and smiled, "Something sad." He looked over at her, raising his eyebrow at her curiously. She did not often smile over sad things, but here, she was so delightfully touched by the narrative, "Don't give me that look," she smiled at him, wrinkling her nose – he looked affronted, as though she had just accused him of something terrible, "it's a beautiful tragedy."

"Aren't they all?" he tittered, practically beaming at his own display of cleverness. Belle laughed softy, shaking her head. She turned the book over in her hands several times, not making a move to start. "Something bothering you, dearie?" he asked, his voice still amused. "Perhaps all those fairy stories just now starting to come crashing down?" he tilted his head to the side. How strange he appeared every bit both the cat _and_ the canary.

"Not at all," she replied easily, never giving up on her fairy stories or the hope that something could always be better. Her own circumstance showed her that everything ended up alright. She adjusted, took what she had and made it better. She didn't feel like a servant anymore, she felt like she lived her – and had a place. It was a nice feeling. "I guess – I just don't know you very well," she said honestly, shrugging her shoulders just a little bit.

He laughed – nothing malicious, of course, but he had a strange knack for making her feel foolish. She had no time to be foolish, and she was being brave. Turning herself – she never sat facing him, always angled toward the fire – and put the book down. That clearly had to signal she was feeling strongly, to ignore a book for discussion. They never really discussed much of anything – which put her in this place to begin with. "I want to know you, Rumpelstiltskin."

His hands did not stop moving as his mouth mulled. "You are undeniably strange – and perhaps addled by the sun." He looked at her, his hands still moving – never stopping. She wondered if, after she went to bed, he would sleepwalk, then subsequently sleep-spin. It only made sense to her.

"I am not!" she huffed, and he smiled. He did that purposefully, she knew it. He liked to see her get puffed up and angry. She despised it. But, obviously, going about it in the direct way was not going to work – she needed something that would tempt him, entice him to tell her something. She licked her bottom lip in thought. "Why don't we make a deal?"

That was when his hands stopped working. He let them drop to his lap and he looked at her skeptically. "Don't you remember something about three lifetimes, dearie?" he smirked at her – he thought she was foolish, she could see it – and Belle giggled at him, smirking in return. She did not let him win – she thought that might have been the reason why he kept her for so long, especially after she ruined clothes and proved to be a rather terrible housekeeper. At least she could cook, and always kept him on his toes.

"I do," she said, lifting her chin to look at him out of the corner of her eye. She smoothed her skirt over her thighs, just to have something to do with her hands. "And if you agree to my terms, we won't have to worry about any more time being added."

That caused some alarm to register on his face, to be sure, and Belle felt triumphant in this round. "I think you have been spending too much time with me," he teased, and she blushed.

"They do say if you want to learn a trade, you should learn from the best," she pointed out, a rueful smile decorating her face. She could feel the mischief rising all the way to her eyes and she scooted just a little bit closer. "So, are you in the business of making a deal or not, Rumpelstiltskin?" Not the time for games!

He clicked his tongue, "You were so close," his head was shaking, "I'll need to hear the terms before I agree – I'd be a disgrace to deal-making if I went in blind, as it were." He turned fully toward her, resting his elbows on his knees, he tilted his chin down to look at her, waiting for her terms. She could tell him he had to jump off the roof of the tallest tower and she was fairly sure he would do it.

"I guess I'll need a little more practice," she giggled sitting up on her knees a little bit, closing even more of the gap between them. "We trade – story for story," her smile started to bloom, "but they have to be true stories."

"No fairy stories?" he asked, sounding impressed. "You've got my attention…" he continued with a drawl.

"Sadly, no fairy stories," she confirmed. "You have to tell the truth, and if you don't – you have to do the other person a favor." He raised his eyebrows, "Yes, a favor. Before you ask," she smiled at his grin, "like making tea, or fetching things – like straw, or mending clothes."

He rolled his eyes. "You'll have to do better than that. To make a deal, you need to have something the other person wants – and I am smarter than that, dearie," he wagged his finger back and forth, signaling her attempt at out-smarting him had not been successful. "It sounds to me like I have much more to lose in this than you." He leaned back, his wiry hair clouding his expression for a moment before he tossed his head, "You're going to have to do better than that."

Belle pursed her lips, her cheeks filling with air. She knew in the making of deals, one did not consult the other party for their opinion, so she had to come up with this herself. It was important to make the deal tempting, but also manageable. She let out a deep breath, trying to think of a suitable punishment for violating the deal. "For every lie, the person listening gets to demand anything they want from the other."

Rumpelstiltksin's eyes widened at the prospect and he chuckled deeply – _darkly_ – shaking his head. "That is dangerous territory, dearie."

Belle could not suppress her Cheshire grin. "I have always loved the roads less travelled," she countered; a challenge. "But," she went to reach for the book, "It's your choice." And she flipped it open to the first page, calm face on the whole time. She didn't mind reading – though she'd be sorely disappointed if he didn't take her offer up. It took all of her willpower to avoid glancing up at him.

She could him breathing, shifting on that wooden stool, and if she listened close enough, she was sure she could hear the wheels in his head turning over the decision. This was not some kind of war strategy, merely a game, but he was taking it seriously. "I'll take the deal," he says finally. Belle can do nothing but smile.


	10. Shatter the Illusion

**A/N:** Thank you, thank you, thank you for all of the amazing reviews and follows and everything! It makes me so happy to hear people enjoy reading, and because people seemed so interested in what was going to happen in the stories, I wrote this chapter up today because I was inspired myself! So, thank you everyone for your gracious reviews, and if you are inclined to continue, please do! I hope you all enjoy this installment!

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><p>"The lady is first," Rumpelstiltskin trilled, pretending to bow from his seat with a flourish.<p>

Belle giggled and nodded, accepting that she would have to start this little game, and was glad that she was not inclined to lie on the first pass. "What kind of story would you like to hear?"

"One in which you are a fool, dearie," he grinned, glints of deviousness, crossing his arms across his chest and looking down at her. She perched still, inclining her head to the side, trying to think of an instance n which she was a fool. She was about to open her mouth, but he cut off, "and it cannot be anything since you have been here."

So the teacup debacle was out.

Her mouth clamped shut for a moment and she frowned. "You desire to make my life difficult," she accused, and he raised his eyebrows at her – clearly challenging. Though, he did not deny. And she smirked, just slightly, "As I endeavor to do the same." His eyebrows lowered and expression neutralized. That was clearly what he had been looking for.

But, she let out a deep breath and mulled over in her mind once again, any semblance of a story she could think of. When it popped into her head, a memory so vivid she was surprised it did not just leap right out of her mind, Belle began to laugh. "I'm no mind reader, dearie," he was very clearly hiding a grin, and Belle shook her head.

"When I was fifteen years old – do not ask how long ago that was," his mouth shut, "my father and I traveled, for the first time. I had never left our humble little kingdom before, and there was a ball – morbid thing, really, a celebration for the lost princess with the golden hair…" she shrugged, pursing e rips in thought, "They started holding the ball every year on the anniversary of her disappearance, Father told me it was because they hoped beyond reason that their golden haired girl would show up at one – but it had been going on for nearly eighteen years at that point."

She looked up at him and he did not appear amused, "But, you are not here for a court history lesson," she smiled, "and I did not concern myself so much with the lost princess. I was still a princess, however provincial, and Father decided it would be good for me to go – he had been advised it was time I started to amass suitors," she made a face, scrunching her nose and Rumpelstiltskin chuckled. "So, the maids packed my trunks and our guards accompanied us on the week's journey."

This was an impossibly long story, she realized as she was telling it- but he was smirking, generally indicating his amusement, and Belle could do nothing but continue. "When we arrived at the palace, I knew I was not in my element, so to speak. The day gowns of most of the other amassed royals were far more luxurious than even my most ornamented ball gown – and my hair… oh, if you could have seen the arrangements and decorations of theirs next to my simple curls," she shook her head, "I was a veritable tragedy in a dress." He nodded in agreement and she shot him a look that only increased the brilliance of his terrible smile.

"Whatever the case," she cut at him, pausing with her eyes locked on his before smoothing out her skirt and continuing, "I muddled through small talk and was horrid at parlor music – my harp skills are… devastating…"

"As is your singing," he pointed out, finally breaking in with a comment he seemed to be dying to make the whole time.

Belle frowned again and rolled her eyes, "Yes, that too," she huffed, "but a sweet, albeit it perhaps as wayward as I was girl, I believe Winifred was her name, took pity on me and at least had me dressed properly for the ball. I felt silly, of course, in what felt like miles of horrible, yellow silk with those ridiculous paniers, and all the powder, not to mention the ridiculous painted on mole – I looked like an iced cake and I couldn't even walk in the pinch-toed shoes she gave me, but Father looked so proud, even if he was humble looking compared to the others, and he accompanied me to be presented to the King and Queen – dreadfully sad looking pair, but they were pleasant enough."

"I won't bother you with many details over the course of the evening –merely that I was perhaps the worst dancing partner and by the middle of the evening, I was sneaking away to the garden to avoid anymore humiliation. So, as I was sitting on the edge of the garden maze –my shoes off my feet, but hidden under the millions of layers of skirts and whatever else," they both shared a laugh, "it turns out I was not alone!" She tried to hide her grin as she looked at him, leaning forward, intrigued by her tale.

She let the pause hang in the air, and he frowned, "Well, who was it?" he asked impatiently, his foot was tapping and he leaned in a little closer.

Belle looked up at him with a triumphant, but cryptic smile. "Do not rush me," she chided and lifted her chin, looking away. She pretended to have to think about what she was going to say next and he grumbled under his breath. Belle felt a surge of pride. "As I was saying," she cleared her throat, "outside there was a young man with dark hair and a deep green waistcoat – he had removed his overcoat – and he was staring intently into the fountain. Curiosity got the best of me, as it is wont to do," She wrinkled her nose at him and his lip quirked to the side, just a tad, "so I slipped the horrid shoes back on and started toward him, hoping to be in the company of someone as miserable as I was – well, as I called out, well, he tipped forward and _splash!_" her hands flew out as she excitedly got to the detail, making the sound of water to accompany the emphatic gesture with a laughter, "he fell face first into the fountain and – oh," she turned her head down and put her hand on her forehead, shaking her head with laughter – ridiculous story this was.

"He hit his head, flailing all over – all elbows and arms," she continued trying not to laugh, "so – there I was, silk gown and all, leaning over the edge of the fountain, trying to pull the thoroughly soaked and helpless duke or baron or whatever he might have been, and because the dress was so cumbersome and I wasn't used to the shoes, I lost my balance and," she threw out her arms again, repeating the splashing sound, dissolving into a fit of giggles at the thought, "dripping wet and smudged, I managed to sit up and the _look_ on his face!"

Rumpelstiltskin shifted in his seat, "Who was it?" he asked, and Belle smiled.

"Who do you think it was?" she queried in response, hoping to make him guess or reveal that he knew something already. He seemed like the type that would not miss a ball. Plus, the way he looked at her, it was like he had heard it already – or had seen it, watched it himself. And he raised his eyebrows at her.

"Dearie, how would I know who you managed to scare into such a state he dove into a fountain?" he smirked, knowing he ruffled her feathers – he got the same smirk whenever he did and Belle scooted closer, turning her body so she could face him directly, looking up into his face, leaning up as he leaned down. She was suddenly made aware of how close they truly were. But she tilted her head, scrutinizing his eyes, she could not make it out.

"That is not the story I told," she corrected him, "I am hardly a scary individual, at least not at first glance," she added with a teasing smirk. He put his hand on his chest, as though he was shocked by her confession, though it was all in jest, and she smiled. "One guess, and then I'll tell you." They were still so close, she could practically feel the vibrations of his heat coming off his face. Her lips parted a little and she breathed just a little deeper.

He sat back and the vibrations stopped. Belle felt unsettled and her heart was beating so fast. She was glad for the break in the story for him to guess. She felt as though she would have been tongue tied. Even still, that sensation wasn't bad, and she inched just a little closer, hoping to get it back – but he was leaning back on the stool stroking his chin with thought. "Based on the inclination toward a fountain and the green," he licked his lips, "I'd place my bets on that silly – what was his name? Prince Nathan?" he shook his head, "No, no. Naveen was it?" he smirked. She could see in his expression – he already knew.

Belle swatted at his knee and she wrinkled her nose. "You were there, weren't you?" she asked accusingly. Her glare was only half-hearted and he finally betrayed himself fully with a grin.

"Dearie, I never miss a party," he informed her with a faux-haut glance, his voice trilling with the most ridiculous accent he had used to date. "And might I say, your description of yourself is lacking in one particular facet, I do recall a rather hideous shade of pink," he leaned forward, examining her face with scrutiny, his eyes flicked down to her lips, "paint on your lips. You were a fool, indeed." Neither of them laughed.

They sat still for a moment, and then Belle reacted. She reached up and with one finger pushed at the tip of his nose, pushing him back. He did not resist, not at all. And her expression softened, "Your turn."

"Now, now, that does not seem like the end of the story," Rumpelstiltskin wagged his finger at her.

"It is," she shrugged simply, not in the mood to tell her story anymore. Her stomach suddenly felt unsettled. She didn't know what was wrong, but she felt strange. "I want to hear about something no one knows about you – one of your secrets."

"If I told you," he immediately cut in, "it wouldn't be a secret anymore, would it?" he didn't smile at this, and his tone was flat.

"Who am I going to tell?" she asked, a hint of innocence in his voice, though an underlying understanding of the fact she was living in isolation. "I want to know you, Rumpelstiltskin," she started to plee gently, lifting one hand to his knee, resting it there. She could feel her pulse in her temples.

He looked at her sharply. There was harshness in his dark eyes and his nostrils flared. "Secrets, m'dear," he drawled in a low rumble, "are kept for a reason. Ask something else." It was not a request and he would not relent, he never did.

Belle lifted her head high. "I get a secret, or you owe me." She licked her lips, she was not in the business of relenting either. They sat there in silence, that vibrating sensation was back, like a rope being pulled between the two of them. Either way, it would snap in her favor, she reasoned. And he stood abruptly, shattering the illusion.

"Those are not the term we agreed to," he said tersely. He took his deal making seriously, but Belle was not cowed by his growling or attempts at intimidation. It was not going to work on her.

She grabbed her book from the floor, desiring something to hold onto and ground her while she spoke the imp with a serious mood swing. "I set the terms, and you refuse to fulfill my request. I fulfilled yours," she accused, looking up at him. She did not feel the need to stand – and was certain her knees would quake and her voice would shake – at least from this position she could retain her tone.

He put his hands behind his back, but she could hear the wringing. He was frustrated. "I refuse."

"Omission is as damning as a lie," Belle countered, her face hurting from the strain of looking at him and feeling disappointed and frustrated at him as well. It was not as though she asked how she might kill him or something of the sort – she just wanted a glimpse into a facet of him no one else had explored. Her cheeks flushed and she could not recall a moment in their entire acquaintanceship (it seemed like more than that, but friendship did not encompass it either…) that was this tense.

"If that is the case," he sneered, "My secret is that you have been the most useless deal I have made in as long as I can remember." He lashed out like this before, and Belle sighed.

"As though that is a secret," she snorted at his assertion and looked up at him. "Besides, she looked into his angry face. "You're lying."

The words hung in the air between them and neither moved a muscle. "I am not," he retorted with a heavy tone of offense in his voice, his lip curled and eyes trained on her like she was some kind of hobgoblin. Well, she was no such thing and he was in denial.

"You are," she nodded, "Infuriating, perhaps. Maybe even troublesome, but useless? Certainly not." His face fell and she realized she had caught him. He was such a master of words, but when he was angry, he was swayed to less logical turns of phrase. He should have known by now that Belle, with all of her reading and court experience was also a wordsmith of sorts, and he had been outclassed because of his own temper.

"I am in debt then, it seems," he said with bitterness laced through every word, and turned on his heel to exit the hall. His boots clicked ominously, and the doors shut behind him with a resounding thud. It occurred so quickly that Belle's head spun.

Somehow, after the moment of pride that she had outwitted the Rumpelstiltskin, the victory seemed hollow.


	11. It is Fitting

**A/N: **Oh. My. Gosh. Wow! Thanks to EVERYONE who has reviewed this story in like... droves. I never would have imagined getting over 100 reviews for anything - lots and lots of love for this fandom! It's kind of insane to me, haha, and I don't really have the words to actually like... properly thank you guys for making me feel so many warm fuzzies! I really appreciate all of the feedback (and yes, FFool, haha, my tenses do shift - I've been trying to work on it... oops!), and I'm just glad everyone has had such positive things to say and I hope that you continue to read and enjoy! Thank you so much, continue to enjoy and I look forward to hearing from you!

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><p>He went away again. This time, all he did was leave a note that business had come up in the middle of the night. Belle was not naïve. She might have been the daughter of a noble, but she wasn't vapid like other girls. She lived in a province, far from the courts of extravagant ball gowns and heavy jewelry, but she also didn't live like a pauper either, to be certain. She had what she needed – and she was never alone.<p>

It seemed so unfair now, to be alone for days, with only a note to inform her. He could have come to her, at the very least, to let her know in person. He was being a coward.

If he had given her the chance, she wanted to apologize, or at least make a peace offering. Now, as she dusted and cleaned by herself, she had time to think about it. She might apologize, but she also had to think about what she wanted.

A deal was a deal, after all, and he owed her. It was not often, she figured, that Rumpelstiltskin was not the one biding his time, waiting for the moment that he would be asked something. No, Belle had him in the palm of her hand and he could request anything.

Trying to think of something worth asking for took up most of her day, or at least accompanied almost every task she found herself completing. While she wiped down the shelves, she thought and talked to herself. Scrubbing the floor, she'd speak to her reflection in the gleaming surfaces trying to piece together her desires. The problem was, she felt like she had everything already!

She had no need or desire for material items: what would she need a pretty ball gown or impossible slippers for? What purpose would a diamond or two serve her? She didn't desire those things before, to wish for them now, well – that was just not what she wanted from him. So, she moved on from the thought. She was already granted access to everywhere in the castle, and she had a garden that she was allowed to change – she supposed she could ask for more flowers, but she had a sneaking suspicion she could get those without having a favor.

It was possible to ask for the same story, but that upset him. It would also be underhanded, and though she did not necessarily mind being underhanded most of the time, particularly when dealing with him, he was her friend (at least she thought so), and what she knew of friendship suggested that was not how one went about treating their friends. Then there was Gaston, and he wasn't her friend, really, but she had treated him civilly, even if he was…

Well. He wasn't her prince, or knight in shining armor, that was for certain. Maybe, he would make some other woman very happy, but Belle was not that woman.

So, the question remained, with all of the things she didn't want to ask for, or didn't want, or couldn't do to him, what would she ask for? Days passed, four lonely days that she stared at the doors when she wasn't realizing it, and feeling her heart jump whenever she thought she heard a noise – apparently old castles were notorious for making noises. She had just about given up looking over her shoulder at every creak when eventually, the doors did open and Rumpelstiltskin strolled through the doors, looking every bit pleased as pleased with himself as he ever had.

Belle was in the middle of polishing the sword that sat on display in the main room – it was looking a bit tarnished, and looked up, betraying her excitement for company with a bright smile. "Welcome back," she breathed, somehow in a matter of four days forgetting that he made her feel like her blood was somehow thicker and lightening went down her spine when he turned his eyes on her.

He looked down at the table and ran his finger over it, bringing it up to eye level. "Kept yourself busy, I see?" His greeting certainly left Belle wanting. She pursed he lips and was suddenly, as if stricken by some cosmic force. She almost most certainly knew what she was going to ask for.

Belle nodded, "I think," she cast a glance at him as she dragged the rag over the blade, hearing the sheen of the thing – it was obviously very sharp, but she had deft hands, as long as she didn't need to use them and her feet at the same time, "there was extra dust, just to keep me busy."

He raised his eyebrows, "Imagine that," and laughed. He laughed! Belle crossed her arms. She was going to wait to declare what she wanted, but she shook her head.

"I figured out what I want from you," she announced decidedly. No sympathy for him now, she was sure. Maybe he was still cross, but he seemed to stroll in with a good mood – and she felt almost a little vindicated that she should remember after four days, have come up with something she really wanted, and put it in front of him when he stepped in.

Of course, his expression was one of surprise, and then immediately aggravation. He twisted his neck and she heard a little crack – he was not pleased, but Belle found herself suddenly displeased, blaming the negative energy squarely on him. "What is it, Dearie?"

Belle relaxed the weapon back onto its stand and put the rag on top of the pedestal before clasping her hands behind her back. She strolled forward, sticking her chin out and glancing up at his face through her thick, dark lashes. "I want you to dance with me." She imagined the smile on her face was the most innocent and sweet thing she could conjure for a request that would surely startle him.

For the briefest moment he was completely blank faced, unsure of what to say. He recovered himself though, standing up taller and mimicking her, perhaps, put his hands behind his back as well. "A dance?" he sneered, though Belle could see that it wasn't genuine, she had seen his genuine displeasure. He was confused, but not angry. "You only get one deed, dearie. And…" he leaned down a little to meet her eyes, "I do have magic."

"Oh, I know," she smiled, "but every bit of magic has a price." She smiled and he looked puzzled. Belle giggled softly and bit her bottom lip, "I do not wish to pay."

Rumpelstiltskin was silent. Perhaps for the first time in many weeks he seemed to be unsure of what to say to her. Generally, even if it was not something nice, he always had a retort. But he moved his jaw like he was searching for some moisture in his mouth and the muscles near his neck tensed. Belle observed all of these ticks with fascination – it was when he showed these signs, when he couldn't be clever that she enjoyed his company most. He was very much human, no matter how much he denied it.

So, Belle took it upon herself. She unlaced her fingers from behind her back and grasped the edges of her blue skirt, lifting it to show off her silver shoes. Dipping low, she curtseyed, and if he didn't respond, well, he wasn't half the gentleman he pretended he wasn't. "Sir?" she smiled sweetly – and he bent like a sapling to the wind.

He bent at the waist and held out his hand to her, a strange tingle shooting right through her core as she put her hand in it. "A polonaise, Madame? Or would you prefer a quadrille?" he asked with raised eyebrows, anticipating the space and comfort such formulaic dances might provide. She could see the wheels in his head turning. But Belle shook her head, earning another curious look.

"A waltz," she said simply and guided his hand seamlessly to her waist and she put her hand on his shoulder. She pushed for proper form and felt strangely hot as they were flush against one another.

There was no music, but that was no matter. Rumpelstiltskin, for all of his coarseness was a graceful creature, and led. Belle followed and kept her eyes trained on his face, at least at first. She closed her eyes, following his movements (despite the awkward steps) and tried to imagine being in front of people, dancing in a room where no one stopped looking, and when her imagination turned her eyes toward the person she danced with, she thought she might imagine someone else – but he was even in her mind, golden skin and brown eyes, beaming in that wicked way – like he had something that everyone else coveted.

The blush that rose to her cheeks could have been from that or the little sound he made when she stepped on his toes again and she snapped out of her daydream. She might not have been the best partner, but his grace certainly helped her own. There was a lump in her throat and she beamed at him. His lips quirked upward awkwardly for a moment before he seemed to concentrate more heavily on the actual movement of the dance.

He moved quickly, stepping lightly and it caused Belle to laugh more than once, tripping to follow, and he patiently held on. When she clung to him for balance his touch became feather soft and Belle eased, just to feel him grab her tighter. His hand on her waist was ever present and her pulse was so quick – the exertion of dancing, really.

It could only last so long though, before Belle tripped over her feet, having crushed his toes more than once and spilled into his arms. His grasp was protective, tight on her waist, but still, at a distance. "I see your dancing has not improved," this time his smile was rueful – real, even though he was still holding her at arms length.

Belle laughed as well, feeling it bubbling all the way up to her eyes and she stood up straight, finally, said to feel the soft pressure of his hands come off her weight and instead a feeling of loss taking its place. "Neither have your manners," she teased, smoothing out the pale violet fabric.

He played at being offended; the same look he gave her father when he called him a beast and Belle wrinkled her nose at him. The 'offense' turned into a wicked grin, his teeth – that she had first construed as rotting, but now just saw as discolored, like the rest of him, peeking out from behind his thin lips. "Oh, I was not aware I was a kettle, Ms. Pot," he jabbed at her, and it was Belle's turn to feign offense.

The momentary expression melted into a cascade of giggles and Belle swayed from side to side, feeling almost shy with her skirt gripped in her hands, small smile on her rosy lips. "It is fitting, I think," she commented, a mystery behind her blue eyes, daring him to ask.

And he does, without hesitation. "What is fitting, dearie?"

"That we should both be black."


	12. Business as Usual

**A/N: **A continued thanks to all of you reading my story! I really appreciate all of your kind words and encouragement! It means a lot to me, and I've really been working on becoming a better writer, and all of you have helped so much! So thank you, and please continue to enjoy! I really look forward to hearing everything you guys have to say! And maybe, just maybe, if you send me a good idea for one of these little scenes it MIGHT show up ;) hehe. Enjoy!

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><p>The clouds had been accumulating all morning. It started with a few like gray fluffy ones, then some darker clouds started to roll in, and finally the sky was a veritable quilt of varying shades from gray to black, pulsing and ready to break open. With every minute they got thicker, it got hotter, and Belle had to go inside before long. She thought she would wilt from the heat.<p>

But, sitting on the ledge of one of the windows as the deep rumbles sounded in the distance, cracks of fire in the sky so far away, sent shivers down her spine.

The storms at home were terrible, people always died, whether from the fires or the rivers overflowing. She liked spring showers, the kinds that made the crops grow and the flowers flourish, but these summer storms – they were destructive.

She retreated as the drops began to fall, slowly at first, and the latch clicked shut. Letting out a deep breath, she dropped onto the ground in front of the window. She folded her arms across the ledge, resting her chin as she half-sat, half-kneeled with heavy eyelids. She continued to gaze out, and up, watching the fat drops collect on the window and slip down in paths.

Some of them raced, others sat in waiting until they crashed down with all their might, and soon enough, the rain was coming down so fast and hard, there were no more races, just an onslaught of weather and Belle scrambled back from the window as the first lighting whip struck the ground with a restrained squeak.

From somewhere behind her, a dark chuckle rolled out of the only other occupant of the castle, mimicking the ominous rolls of thunder outside the windows. "What's this?" he teased, "Brave Belle afraid of a little storm?" he raised his eyebrows, challenging her. She couldn't be sure if her heart was thumping so hard because of the anticipation of the next crash of thunder or the way her name rolled off the tip of his tongue – he rarely used it, and she seized up for a moment.

"I don't like storms," she affirmed, though did not acknowledge she was afraid; after all, she wasn't afraid for herself. They were in a citadel of stone. He would think her concern childish, she was sure. He always did.

The expression on his face was clearly not belief, however, and he pressed forward, the next bright explosion of lightening cast her imagination into the village below them, the very same one that often played music and made her time outside so comfortable. She imagined the huts erupting in flames and she gritted her teeth to avoid jumping as the thunder roared. "I think that is an understatement," Rumpelstiltskin commented, searching her face.

He was standing so close to her, she could almost feel his breath on her nose, and she met his eyes for only a moment, trying not to let him see the tears she knew were shimmering over. Belle closed her eyes and took a breath, steadying herself in the wake of the next explosion of light, energy, and sound. Her blood pounded in her ears. "It's just… the village," she breathed out, finally. He always got her to say what she did not want to, for some reason.

"The village?" he echoed with confusion, as though he misheard her under the oppressive pattering of the rain on the windows and the constantly rumbling thunder that chipped at her resolve.

She nodded vigorously, eyes still closed, taking a deep breath in through her nose. "Storms," she said in a hushed, reverent whisper, "they destroy so much," her eyes fluttered open to catch the next bright light and crack of thunder, causing her to cringe. "They kill people."

She felt so simple saying it, but it was true. She didn't like death, the thought of it – especially those that were helpless. His expression was not one of ridicule now though, instead, he looked contemplative. "You're worried about the villagers?" he asked, more for clarity's sake than anything, she thought and she nodded, almost embarrassed. "Dear girl, why would you be worried about them?"

Belle licked her lips, resolving that she would do her best to not pay attention to the raging storm. "Their homes will burn," she stated quietly, resigned and sad, "or get washed away… their crops the same… animals run away," she shook her head, "and they can't do anything about it…" She sniffed, holding back a strangled sound in her throat.

"They could build stronger homes," he was playing devil's advocate, as always, "or fences." Belle shook her head. It wasn't as though he was being cruel, he was just being truthful, but Belle did not believe they had those capabilities, not with everything peasants were responsible for.

Coming from a small province, she had played with the children when she was young, and she lived closely to them, saw the things they went through. "They can't," she countered, voice shaking. "They can't – but…" her eyes flitted up to his face, "you can," she breathed. "You can help them."

"Can I?" he asked her, almost too seriously. Belle could see the wheels behind his eyes turning, and she felt her skin crawl with every lightening strike on the landscape surrounding them.

"You can," her voice was stronger and she put her hands up, resting them on the lapel of his leather vest. She could feel heat even through the layers of silk and dragon hide, pleading him with her eyes, "please, keep them safe?" she asked, "even just once."

His muscles tensed under her fingers and he sucked in a deep breath, pushing her hands toward herself, but she let them remain, her fingers playing at clutching the extensively decorated and done edging on the vest, far finer than anything even in her own province had worn. "You know that's impossible."

"It's not!" she protested, clutching harder at the lapel. "Whatever price, I will pay it," she was being irrational, but it was the first storm of the season and while was used to death and suffering, it was usually soldiers. They were in the business of death, but women and children, the elderly… she had been comforted by the walls of this place, and though removed from them, felt a kinship with the people below who had produced her garments, any trinket he brought for her, and the music she so loved to hear in the garden. "Just help them."

He considered for a moment and let out a deep breath, Belle's hands moved forward with him and she took a small step to follow, barely brushing up against him. She was so hopeful and he seemed conflicted. "Dearie, to make a deal, one has to have something the other wants."

Belle's shoulders dropped and she let her hands fall, no longer touching him, no longer feeling the heat of him under her palms and a strange feeling in the heart of her. She only felt an ache for the people in the village. "Right," she said, defeated, and jumped back as the next crash of thunder was so loud and powerful that the room shook. "Of course," she added, sulking back toward a chair in front of the fire.

He moved toward his spinning wheel, and they were silent. She tried to read, but her mind kept drifting down the hill, following the trail of the water, toward the river and rushing through the fields, sweeping up whatever was in its path, a sheep or cow, maybe a fence, half of a field, or worst of all a house. They'd all float down in a mix of debris and screams – and then the straw would go up, and yes, it was raining, but it wouldn't be enough – and even desperate attempts wouldn't save it… When she closed her eyes, the images got more vivid and Belle felt sick to her stomach.

She wondered how he could sit there at his wheel and not pay any mind to the suffering outside. Perhaps he had no more sense of it, and Belle retreated from the main room, only mentioning she did not feel well and would be in her room, should he need anything.

No knock ever came. Outside of the sounds of the storm and her own sobs (however much she tried to hold them back), it was deathly quiet.

She lay on her bed, listening to the sounds of the storm ebb away and leave behind a soft rain. The heat broke as well, leaving Belle only physically comfortable while her mind raged, trying to push out the images of a small village that would have to put itself together again in the morning.

Until then, her eyes closed and she fell asleep to the sound of rain lapping at the windows and wind knocking at the latches.

There was no sun to wake up to the next morning. It was dark and damp, residual rain clouds loomed in the sky. Summer storms did not usually carry on like this, but it had been particularly horrific the previous day. She slugged through her morning tasks, getting dressed and going to prepare a quick breakfast.

Part of her wished she didn't have to use the croissant dough she prepared. They were his favorite and he most assuredly did not deserve them. But, she prepared them anyhow – it would be a waste of her effort. At least she could refuse to put blackberry jam with them, she thought, and assembled the tray of tea and morning pastry – a tired and sad trudge up the stairs to the main hall.

He was sitting there already, waiting for her, and Belle sighed, placing the tray on the table. It was a ritual, pouring the tea, assembling plates, all of the things she did every day, but she went about it with lethargy today, not meeting his eyes as she placed three croissants and his tea cup in front of him. "Morning," he finally greeted – she supposed he had been waiting for her to greet him.

"Morning," was the hollow echo of a reply, and she sat on the table, cradling her cup. She was hungry, but somehow didn't really feel the desire to eat, like it repulsed her. So, she sat on the table and sipped at her tea, left with nothing else to do.

He also grabbed up his tea, holding it close to his face. "I was already in town this morning," he lilted, looking at her over the rim of the teacup. She looked at him, her lips pulled tight and chin tilted up. She did not respond, at least not verbally. "Despite its intensity, apparently the storm was unremarkable and it seems business as usual."

Her jaw dropped and he grabbed a croissant off the plate in front of him, having dropped the news as though it were raising bread prices, and Belle put down her teacup. She pushed herself off the table and headed straight out of the room. An occasion like this certainly required some blackberry preserves.


End file.
